Little Things of Venom
by 1BadJoke
Summary: Summary: Dawn of the Dead  2004 remake , Harry Potter style. After years of growing accustomed to the peaceful life of house arrest with his wife and son, Draco Malfoy wakes up one morning to a world changed, Wizarding and Muggle alike.
1. Better Tomorrow

Disclaimer: This story is for purely recreational purposes and in no way am I profiting from this. I do not own Harry Potter nor Dawn of Dead. The title comes from the song "Little Things of Venom" by Arid.

Summary: Dawn of the Dead (2004 remake), Harry Potter style. After years of growing accustomed to the peaceful life of house arrest with his wife and son, Draco Malfoy wakes up one morning to a world changed, Wizarding and Muggle alike.

A Crossover, technically, but the character from DofD aren't as important. Just inserting HP characters into the film and making it coherent.

Warnings: Foul language, graphic violence, reanimated corpses, gore, undead cannibalism, **m/m sex** (Let's assume that involves the basics ie. BJs, handies, 69, rimming, anal, etc), and mentions of het, and... Character Death (yes, I'm sorry!)

Pairings: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini/Pansy Parkinson, George Weasley/Angelina Johnson, mentions of Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, and OCs

This isn't entirely Epilgoue-compliant. I pick and chose certain things, and skewed some ages, but nothing complicated. This is my first sincere foray into the fandom, and, yes, it is kind of weird I went this route but the fuse can be a funny thing as we all know. Anyways, I'm pretty nervous about this, so I hope you enjoy it. And please, no flames.

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><p><strong>I. Better… Tomorrow<strong>

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else?  
>And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold my heart;<br>And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,  
>But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee!<br>Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat  
>In this distracted globe. Remember thee!<br>Yea, from the table of my memory  
>I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,<br>All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,  
>That youth and observation copied there;<br>And thy commandment all alone shall live  
>Within the book and volume of my brain,<br>Unmix'd with baser matter: Yes, by heaven!  
>O most pernicious woman!<br>O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!  
>My tables, -meet it is I set it down,<br>That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;  
>At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark.<p>

_Hamlet Act I, sc. 5 (line 100)_

Reaching his ears, the sound of the floo flaring in the entrance hall was a welcome distraction. The passage was leaving him a bit more melancholy than he anticipated for the chosen selection. Hamlet had sounded like such a pleasant name. How was he to know otherwise? Tomorrow he'd find something less dreary in his mother's secret stash of Muggle Works she left for him, but for now he marked the page and set aside the tome before striding out to the foyer.

A house elf dressed in a crisp white dish towel with the Malfoy crest stitched in gold on the front dashed back and forth from the floo into the foyer, dealing with the small mountain of bags and boxes crowding the hall. Paying little mind to the evident purchases charged to his bank account, his eyes quickly sought out the elegant form of his wife uncharacteristically bent over, wrinkling her ice blue robes, and blocking his son from sight. Her murmuring could barely be heard over the rustling of packages and the smack smack smacking of the elf's bare feet as it circuited across the marble floor.

Frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, he tentatively called out, "Astoria?" His voice seeming too loud for the nervous clench in his gut.

She straightened in a flash: Squaring her shoulders and the Malfoy mask she didn't dedicate her childhood to perfect struggled to hide her obvious distress. All of her poise was offset by her previously pinned up honey-colored hair now mussed and its escaped strands hanging in wild curls about her pale face. His mouth dropped open to inquire but the eager squeal of "Daddy!" soon cut him off. For a moment niggling discontent was forgotten and he smiled, dropping to a knee and happily receiving the small arms flinging themselves around his neck and the light blonde head burrowing into his chest.

"How was your day shopping?" He angled his face down to better see his son when the boy merely held on tighter, strangely quiet compared to the chatterbox Scorpius normally was. "What's happened?" He directed his question over his head straight at his wife.

She'd obviously been preparing for his glare since she calmly stood there, hands clasped at her waist and avoiding his sharp grey eyes by staring at Scorpius. "There was sort of a scuffle at Diagon, and Scorpius got caught up in it."

"'Got caught up in it'?" He sneered. "He's shaking."

It was true; as soon as "Diagon" left Astoria's wine red lips, it triggered a whole bout of tremors wracking his son's delicate frame. Draco wrapped a protective arm around him and his other hand gently cradled the back of Scorpius' head, fingers threading through the platinum strands. So like his own.

"Hey," he whispered into the boy's hair, carefully coaxing the five year-old to unbury himself. Once he succeeded, he wished he hadn't: The healthy hue to his son's complexion had paled to the color and consistency of wet parchment, the usually sparkling blue eyes were red-rimmed and faded to a slate grey. Cold, like Lucius'.

Draco initially shied from the pitiful sight, but a rage equal to an overwhelming tenderness surged through him. This was his baby boy, his entire world contained in the best children's robes money could buy, and he now looked to be sick and terrified. Quickly Draco swept him up into his arms -Scorpius curling naturally against his chest; he could probably feel Draco's heart banging rapidly just beneath the surface- and stood tall. His face didn't belie his intense worry but remained as stone.

"Explain," he said simply.

"He's absolutely fine! A bit shaken up is all!" Astoria huffed in light of the strong show of affection never once shown to her from her husband.

By the slight narrow of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils, he was clearly waiting for more.

"Alright... I'm not completely sure what happened. One moment everything was fine and the next- some- some lunatic was attacking people. A crazed mudblood by the look of him. He grabbed Scorpius for only a second until the Aurors arrived and bound him."

"And where were you?"

"I- … you're well aware children aren't allowed in Circe's Enchanted Crystal!"

"He's five and you left him **alone** on the street," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"Not for long!"

If his hands weren't full he'd hex her. Draco thought himself a relatively fair person since the war, so he wouldn't discriminate hexing a woman, especially his own wife. That was probably when it was called for the most.

"If there was something seriously the matter with him, they would have kept him at St. Mungo's."

"St. Mungo's? You took him there and you didn't think to inform me?" His stomach rolled at the thought that his son was at the wizarding hospital to begin with but it threatened to dissolve itself entirely in thick bubbling acid to hear his son was there when he was **here**, brewing potions and napping and reading Muggle literature, all the while sickeningly ignorant.

"If I had fire-called, you would have insisted on coming and you couldn't have forgotten that that's next to impossible-"

"Daddy." Draco obediently bowed his head -expression softening- to train all of his attention on his son who gazed up at him with smudged, sleepy eyes. "May I please go to bed-" A heavy yawn broke off his words.

"You don't want anything to eat first?" Worry niggled at him since the bottomless pit his son usually possessed had no interest in dinner. A lethargic shake of the head was his answer. "I'll take you up in a minute then."

He turned his sharpened gaze back onto his wife and poured all of his anger and disgust into that one fierce look. Even with all her beauty, it hurt to look at her, knowing his restraint to not lash out at her in front of his son was tenuous at best. So he hefted up Scorpius closer to him and said in a measured tone, "For your sake, you better hope those imbecilic healers were thorough."

His wife calmly received the not-so-subtle threat; that is, until he climbed halfway up the large, curved staircase and paused. Not turning back, he added coldly, "By the way, all that isn't strictly for him, goes back tomorrow, and do not dare to think you could argue otherwise. I have no problem barring your access to the vaults."

He would have grinned at her loud, indignant gasp if not for the trembling bundle in his arms, so instead he hastened up the rest of the flight and down the hall till he approached one of the many pristine white doors.

Inside the vast bedchamber bursts of color were in every direction: Stick figures and splashes of ink on parchment were tacked all over the walls instead of the austere portraits the rest of the manor housed; smiling moving images of the father and son waved from the mantle over a black hearth; and limited movement action figures of Quidditch players and magical creatures lined the cherry wood desk and dresser. Draco always sneered at the flapping miniature Hippogriff his son was so fond of standing proudly atop his night table. This was Draco's first room, a nursery of sorts, still being so young at the time to require only the room and ensuite and still be close enough to his parents' wing, though he used to wonder why keep him so close when Lucius discouraged seeking them out in unnecessary duress such as nightmares and imagined boggarts in the closet. One day Scorpius would move into the East wing with more space where Draco had resided during his years at Hogwarts.

A few minutes later he had Scorpius changed into dark green pajamas covered in fluttering gold snitches, and then carefully tucked him in. Systematically he had checked over his son while changing him-"Does anything hurt? Stick out your tongue" etc.- to find nothing out of the ordinary except the pathetic appearance. He called for the house elf that grated on him the least. With a _pop_, the ugly creature appeared.

"Master be needing Mipsy?"

"Yes, bring me a child's serving of Dreamless Sleep and a compress." And with that his servant winked out of sight.

Scorpius was drifting in and out of sleep, looking so small amongst the fluffy duvet and overstuffed pillows. Within seconds Mipsy was back with the potion and waited obediently as Draco urged Scorpius to sit up and feed it to him.

After the war, this particular potion had become Draco's best friend, so he figured his son -having been attacked by a rabid mudblood- could certainly use some now. Once the goblet was drained, Scorpius flopped back, drowsy eyes watching the Technicolor mural on the ceiling.

Narcissa had commissioned the art as soon as the name "Draconis" was chosen: A lifelike Hungarian Horntail soared about a clear blue sky and battled the knights below defending a fairytale castle - flying arrows, flashing swords, fiery breath licking crested shields and charcoal stones, shimmering wings and glinting teeth. Draco never grew bored of it. But for the moment his eyes could only focus on the pasty skin and the steady rise and fall of a tiny chest.

He opened his mouth, the barrage of questions -_Where did you get hurt? What happened? What does this man look like so Daddy can go hunt him down and kill him_- it was all on the tip of his tongue. However, it would be cruel to demand that of the young boy when it appeared all he very much wanted to do was sleep. Parenthood had done wonders for his patience and cultivated the bits of compassion the war had unearthed in him, though this tenderness basically only extended to his mother and Scorpius. Astoria was merely an arranged means to an end, and as for Lucius… well, that ship had sailed long ago.

So with a sigh, he stooped over and brushed his lips against the damp forehead, murmuring affections.

"Dad?"

"Mmm?"

"Could we go flying tomorrow?" Dark eyelids hung low.

Draco ran his fingers through soft, corn silk hair. "We'll see how you feel." Even now he knew his answer the next day would be yes. He couldn't have the five year-old knowing he had his father wrapped around his little finger. Sometimes Draco suspected he did and used it shamelessly to his advantage.

"We won't need to see what Mother says?" The most innocent expression was on that sickly baby face.

The older blond grinned despite the reminder of his infuriating wife. His son's manipulation skills were well on their way; no doubt he'd be sorted into Slytherin six years from now. Draco would most definitely take him flying around the manor's Quidditch pitch tomorrow regardless of whatever Astoria had to say. The only time she ever exercised a mothering bone in her body was when she said No or paraded their son around like a shiny accessory.

His grin widened when he focused on Scorpius' sleepy expectancy.

"Goodnight," he announced with a chuckle and another kiss on the forehead. Scorpius quickly drifted off before he had his chance to protest for an answer. It was terrifying yet at the same time heart warming how much they were alike.

"Mipsy."

"Yes, Mas-"

"Light the fire and stay with him. Give him whatever he wants." All traces of loving amusement had smoothed over as he turned on his heel and exited the room, leaving the door open a crack in case his son called for him. Sound carried well in the vast, high ceiling corridors.

Just outside his son's room, he could feel himself deflate. A weariness no man at such a young age should know aching in his joints. As angry as he was with Astoria, for now he didn't have the energy to deal with her, most likely seething over her lost purchases; so he headed for the one area of the house she never dared go. If he decided he was hungry, he'd take dinner there.

Draco hadn't changed the study much once he fully realized Lucius wasn't going to come back to it. His mother hadn't cared one whit either way. She was only too eager to avoid the Malfoy's ruined reputation by fleeing to their chateau in France. She had told him at the time that she didn't want to be a burden on his new marriage, but he had known better: The Dark Lord's stay hadn't been productive to pleasant memories inside the ancestral home. He couldn't fault her for leaving though. The public scorn would be enough to drive the most prideful away. He wondered how Astoria dealt with it, but he supposed the Greengrass' neutrality throughout the war and the Malfoy's hefty fortune would be incentive enough to stick around. Scorpius seemed to be untouchable from all of that though; one look at the jovial little boy and only the cruelest of monsters would be able to say an unkind word to him.

He poured a liberal amount of scotch and forced himself to drink from the crystal snifter in measured sips. The unchanged design of the room -the sleek lines and neutrally dark color scheme- held a stern dignity that reminded him of his father, the way he was before _his_ halfblood megalomaniac returned.

_Dignity_, he muffled a snort by taking another drink. What did he know about that anymore? He was the Lord of the Manor after a childhood of dreaming and training, and he couldn't even leave! At least not for two more years according to this past May. _Stupid Potter with his half-arsed testimony_. The four-eyed git had told the Wizengamot how he had been coerced into the Dark Lord's service, but the Malfoys were to be made an example of. Meaning Lucius had been scheduled for one hell of a Kiss, and his misguided (and apparently too smart it must be a crime since he had led Death Eaters into Hogwarts) heir, Draco Malfoy, to receive seven years house arrest.

When the time came he could venture farther than his head in a floo call would allow, he would take Scorpius out properly. He hated how he had to remind the boy of Daddy's restrictions because of past actions Daddy wasn't really thinking through so he had to stay home for now out of punishment. He couldn't even wear proper robes; what was the point? Who was going to see him? Just trousers and a crisp button down. Merlin, how he couldn't wait for things to change and he could have the life his birthright entitled him to. Maybe he'd divorce Astoria; he really didn't need her anymore; he had Scorpius and he was definitely all Draco needed.

Several refills later he was slouched in the black leather, high wingback chair. Flames from the fireplace danced in his unfocused pewter gaze.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better.

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><p>He jerked awake to the sound of screaming, but it had stopped as soon as it started. The initial jolt of consciousness slowly dulled with the silence that ensued. He settled back into his chair. He must have dreamt it.<p>

Bleary eyes stung with use and stared absently at the dark hearth. The snifter of spilled scotch held loosely in his grip. He took a few moments to gather himself before sitting up-bad idea, bad idea. His whole left side ached from the awkward curl his body had made inside the chair during slumber and stretching his arms high over his head felt painfully good. He frowned at the darkness of his study, at the dead fire and the sharp slit of daylight between the curtains; usually the house elves tended to such things like clockwork unless told otherwise. Though he was sure he hadn't gotten completely pissed, perhaps he told them to leave it and just didn't remember?

Right, shower first.

Muffling a yawn, he trudged outside his study. Down at the end of the hall, the golden hue of day poured in through the floor to ceiling window, but its light hardly reached more than a few meters before it was swallowed by shadow. He was used to this -this being a more secluded part of the building- though the familiarity did nothing to prevent his shiver. It reminded him too much of… less savory times.

What the hell were the elves doing? They knew better than to leave the drapes closed like this at the start of the day. Sure the Malfoys didn't entertain much these days but the estate home wasn't a tomb and most importantly, the darkness frightened Scorpius.

"Philly," he snapped, knowing Mipsy was ordered to stay by his son's side. When no telltale pop was heard, he looked around him in case he missed the small creature. "Philly," he tried again louder. Nothing. "Grody? …. Mipsy?"

Frustrated, he stalked down the corridor and considered which item of clothing would add more insult to injury when he gave them to the bat-eared little whelps. Considering Astoria, she probably occupied all three with some unreasonable, meaningless task out of spite, knowing he would want one of them for something or other, be it a Hangover potion or preparing his bath; both wouldn't be too terrible at the moment.

As if the day couldn't be off to a more top notch start. "Astoria."

She stood at the top of the stairs, her back to him, with such a crooked posture it was much too early by his internal clock to sneer at properly. Honestly, was he the only sufficiently raised pureblood of his generation?

"Astoria... Astoria, don't ignore me." He stomped closer. When he stepped into the light -apparently the elves made it this far- he noticed two things: One, the shiny marble floor was streaked carmine; and the second, the mess stopped underneath her weirdly positioned heeled slippers.

"Ast- Astoria?" His voice sounded threadbare. Alarms trilling inside his head. One hand uncertainly reached out.

She jerked around like a badly wounded animal. Blood, almost black scarlet ink, soaked well into her champagne silk gown. Her arms shaking at her sides; fingers curled into claws, manicured nails stained and jagged. A wheezing rattle reluctantly brought his gaze up further. "Merlin, Astoria, what-"

A horrible screech ripped through his eardrums and before he had time to tear his round eyes away from the butchered mess of her neck, his fingers were in it with a nuke warm squish as dazzling white teeth bit at his face like a rabid dog.

"Fuck- what-" Cringing and just barely holding her back, he shoved as hard as he could. Bloody dress and flailing limbs went skidding across the floor.

She wasn't still for a moment, already hunkering to all fours. Spitting and snarling with a veil of copper sticky locks tangling in her neck flesh and shading glazed, hungry eyes.

The few rapid steps he took backwards were not because he was afraid, just cautionary.

Strictly cautionary.

"Now, st-stay back. There's something-"

Jaws snapped in his direction, frothing at the mouth.

"Terribly... terribly wrong with you." He gulped. "We'll get you to St. Mungo's, alright? Grody! Mipsy! Philly!"

She lurched forward with a growl, and he jumped back, bumping into an antique vase. "Shit," he yelped as it crashed to the floor. _Wand! _Where was his wand? His mind skittered down the hall, around several turns, past one set of double doors and landed hard on the polished strip of hawthorn left beside the scotch. Damn it all. Just when this terrifying thought hit, one more crippling struck him.

_Scorpius._

With one more check on the growling creature, formerly known as his wife, struggling to stand, he dashed away.

All matter of scenes raced through his head: Scorpius safe and fine, still sleeping or playing with his toys but completely unaware of his mother's state; Aware and frightened, locking himself in and waiting for his dad to get there; or worse, but when Draco grazed on worse his balance would falter so he pushed himself harder and faster.

His desperate delusions wouldn't let him see the vibrant trail of red he ran along.

The door was closed when he arrived. Dread twisted through his gut at the handprint smears on the front that led down to a lake of blood on sparkling marble; the dripping door handle lent to slow, lazy ripples through the metallic body.

_Probably just trying to get in. He's fi- fine. Absolutely fine._

He pulled on the wet handle with confidence, but what met his eyes upon entering made him drop to his knees. Numb lips mouthed a soundless, _No_.

The stench of iron filled his nostrils. Opened curtains cast too bright light between dark shadows of disarray. The nightstand overturned, contents scattered; the hippogriff action figure laid on its side and feebly flapping its wings. Wrinkled bed clothes strewn and pointing like a crippled finger.

Bile scorched his throat.

An explosion of guts and tattered Malfoy-crested dish towels; torn apart little bodies, some with mutilated bat-eared faces still attached; bulbous eyes staring unseeingly with glassy terror: Mipsy, Philly, and Grody. And at the center of it all, hunched over what might have been Grody, slick with black crimson was his little boy in fluttering snitch pajamas, green sleeves soaked up to the elbows, and a limp twig-like arm in his grasp. The sound of sloppy chewing and baby teeth scraping bone squirmed in Draco's eardrums.

His hand clamped over his mouth, staving off the acid burning behind his lips.

With just that small action, a red-spattered head snapped up. A strip of leathery skin clamped between bared fangs was sticky against a pointed chin. Glazed blue eyes speared him, and a sharp growl pulled at his insides. Scorpius jumped to his feet with eerie quickness, entrails squishing under his feet. The young Malfoy charged with dim, furious eyes and Draco knew no more but to run. He stumbled backwards from the room -his little boy tearing after- and slipped and landed on his back in the pool of blood. With a jerky kick, the door slammed shut. Banging and snarls sounded on the other side, echoing in his ears. He scooted backwards to get out of the mess and leaned against the wall. Needing just a moment to breathe -_this isn't happening, this is not happening_- his eyes slipped closed with damp relief. Relief that ended all to soon. The full body slams shuddered the door on its hinges; the door rattled unnervingly.

A shriek he was more acquainted with tore through the hall. Draco scrambled up and out of the way just as Astoria crashed into his vacated spot. Teeth bared, head first, bouncing back unbothered with a sick thud.

The urge to ask if she was alright despite all reason twitched on the tip of his tongue, but when she whipped around -face smashed in and bloodied, perfect nose crooked, and one tooth dangling by way of torn gum and spit- he didn't wait for the next inevitable lunge.

There was no time for doubt. He knew this sensation of contained panic rippling through his system and converted it into raw adrenalin. He hadn't felt this since the war.

Draco ran.

The manor streaked by on the fuzzy edges of his periphery, the main focus centered on the nearest, quickest route; it needed no thought save for innate instinct. The few portraits that had been left uncovered called out to him, wailing their own woes, but they were passed by, ignored. His heart beat boomed in his ears. Legs burning. Lungs shrinking. A small stitch sprouted in his side but he pushed himself to keep going. The spasms in his spine of the chase were amplified by the sliced air of Astoria's swiping claws at his back and her wheezing pants down his neck.

He turned a sharp corner and scrambled down an ornate curved stairwell. His feet a blur, he had to grab the railing. There was a rip of fabric, a yelp, and he was snowballed over, tripping those last few steps, landing with a hard smack on the floor. Pain didn't seem to register and without missing a beat he was pushing himself up. One of the many visitors only sitting rooms wasn't far now. His ankle was pulled out from under him. Astoria's jagged nails bit into his black argyle sock, red-filmed teeth intent on his Achilles tendon. It was with the strong desire to remain unscathed and not the reoccurring urge since their betrothal that gave him the excuse to rear back and kick her in the face. Hard. As soon as she let go with a squawk, he crawl/ran that last stretch of marble.

In the corner of the rarely used room was his target, the floo. It may have been lame but all he wanted was to be with his mother; it made sense in the past during Survival mode and it always worked out after that. Without further ado, he limped over to the ivory fireplace -his grab for green powder knocking over the urn- and eyed the black hearth. Once again he wished he had grabbed his wand.

Wet, slapping gallops entered the room. With a spike of fear came a flare of wild magic and the hearth burst into overenthusiastic flames. He threw in his handful and leapt in just as it bathed green. Thoughts of help and his mother in mind, he choked out, "Chateau de Malfoi!"

Before the whoosh and swallow of flames, the last he saw was the grisly maw of his wife, her jaw warped and chartreuse flickering in her hungry eyes.

TBC

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><p>Yes, no? If you like then please, please, please don't forget to leave a review. It'll make my day- no, my week.<p> 


	2. London Burning

Additional Warnings (I forgot to add *face palm*) : Disturbing images and attempted suicide, side pairings (past and present)

Oh, and because I wasn't paying attention, the OCs mentioned in the first chapter's heading are actually characters from DofD. Sorry!

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><p><strong>London Burning<strong>

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><p>The usual few seconds of nausea dragged on far longer than usual.<p>

Blurred glimpses of random fireplaces rushed past in a highway of green flames. His arms banged into scattered edges of stone, catching and ripping his sleeves. He had to shut his eyes to keep last night's liquor down.

It was surprising to at least have been admitted to the network; it was obviously malfunctioning and given where he came from he couldn't be more thankful for it, but he could sorely do without the travel being like riding the back of a rogue bludger. Pain exploded behind his eyelids. His elbow took a hit as he reached to cup the pulsing side of his skull.

Abruptly he was spat out, landing against cool stone and inflicting more abuse to his head and now to his backside.

The black spots dancing in his vision faded. His half-lidded, drowsy eyes crossed to study the wand pointed between them. They trailed up the sure arm of scarlet Auror robes and further.

_Of course, why not with the day I've been having._

Potter's blazing hunter green eyes flickered with recognition but was quickly snuffed out with fierce determination. "Stay down," he warned, fingers reaffirming their grip.

Draco remained still -he had no choice what with being unarmed and bruised from the Floo travel- yet he internally swore every oath he knew with fluid creativity.

This was clearly not the family chateau in France.

"Say something," Potter demanded through gritted teeth. His towering form only served to infuriate the blond further.

After a beat, Draco cocked his head and spat, "Pillock," at this insane excuse for an Auror.

Despite the small twitch of a locked jaw, the wand fell away and Potter lost the rigidness to his frame. He turned away from Draco, still alert and wand held at the ready, scanning the exits.

"The hell?" With a huff, he climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. The fact his childhood rival just had him at wand point made him briefly forget his panic. "Just where do you get off poi-"

"I thought you were under house arrest," Potter calmly spoke matter-of-fact over him.

"Amazing. I didn't think thoughts could survive in that desolate wasteland you call a brain."

"Malfoy? Shut up."

Mouth falling open to protest as was habit when being faced with prigs like Potter, he thought it over and slowly closed it- of his own volition and not because Potter told him to. Though the back and forth would be its usual distraction, the burning lurch in his stomach upon standing reminded him where he just came from and _why_…

Images of blood soaked dish towels, snapping teeth, and a miniature Hippogriff with a bent wing flashed through his vision as his eyes unseeingly took in the familiar musty surroundings of the Leaky Cauldron: Torches burning low, glasses and bottles left abandoned, some tables overturned and chairs knocked over, not another soul in the joint beside the two of them. His mind wouldn't allow him to fully realize what had happened -the running and the sick crunch of bone under the sole of his shoe- but one thing was clear: This didn't have to affect anything.

He could fix this.

He could- he _would_ go to St. Mungo's and bring some healers to fix Scorpius. He already had an Auror with him, even if it was Potter, and they could- yes. He would have already proceeded to do this with his mother in tow if he had made it to his intended destination.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice Potter dash towards the back of the bar where the entrance to Diagon opened and closed with the slamming of bricks in a matter of seconds. He only looked up when a loud voice asked rudely, "What's **he** doing here?"

Draco spared only a passing glance at Weasley standing beside the surviving joke shop twin -the one with the mangled ear- and what had to be his very pregnant wife standing by his side, all of them breathing heavily and coated with sweat and soot, before he focused squarely on Potter again.

"I need to get to St. Mungo's and you're escorting me."

"As if Harry would go anywhere with you, Ferret. Shouldn't you be locked up in your manor?"

"The network's crashed," Potter supplied absently, gazing at Draco with an inscrutable expression. "He just tumbled through a moment ago."

Scorpius in mind, Draco ignored the redhead entirely and hoped Potter took the glint in his eyes as stubbornness and not desperation. Time was of the essence after all and he figured spouting orders along with wringing the Weasel's neck would make things slow-going.

"At the very least side-along me. I-… I forgot my wand in the rush." The sharp ridge of his cheeks burned slightly, but he kept his expression calm and resolute.

"Oh this is rich!" the Weasel crowed and even though Draco had no idea what was going on or why the busy wizarding pub seemed better suited for tumbleweeds, he could tell the boorish Gryffindor's glee was severely inappropriate. "Malfoy without a wand -basically defenseless- with all the shite going on-" His laughter turned a bit hysterical till he noticed the scolding looks he was receiving and instantly quieted down with an embarrassed grimace. "Don't look at me like that. He's probably in on it. Him and his little Death Eater buddies."

The surviving ginger -Fred? Or was it George?- spoke up not looking entirely convinced with his brother's accusation. "Excuse Ronnikins' mouth, but in all seriousness, mate, you don't want to go to Mungo's. It's worse."

"Worse?" Draco questioned with a terrible sinking feeling in his gut. He hated the confusion fogging his brain, though one thing was startlingly clear by the mix of hostile and blank expressions: They weren't going to help him, not even the great Savior was making a move to help, just standing quietly and staring unblinking at him.

Did they all know and were punishing him? Was this like some colossal joke on that evil git, Malfoy and they were all doing their damnedest to push him to earn himself a sentence in Azkaban?

He was wasting time. Scorpius needed help.

"Fine," he said with a defiant jut of his chin. "If you lot aren't going to help me, I'll find someone who will." He sidestepped the group and made for the back, the brick wall cracked and weathered. Belatedly he remembered he needed a wand to activate the entrance.

"Malfoy, wait- hold on!" He turned to see Potter jogging up behind him. Draco internalized his sigh of relief. 1) He could get to the other side; and 2) He really wasn't looking forward to going through so many people that would spit on him or curse his name before he found someone that would help him, and even that was a long shot in itself.

"So, decided that _protect and serve_ meant everyone and not just your Gryffindork pals?"

Potter's face scrunched up in confusion. "What, um, no- but listen, you can't go that way. It's- it's bad. You're unarmed, and you obviously don't know what's going on-" He carefully took in Draco's bloody torn shirt. "Well… maybe you do a little, but I can't in good conscience leave you on your own."

"So you'll take me to the hospital?"

"No." Frown lines pulled on that oh so famous lightening bolt scar. At the Weasel's shouted, "_Just leave 'im_, _Harry_," Potter bristled. "Please don't make me drag you."

Draco's lip curled. "Kindly open the wall, _Potty_."

Soft edges of pleading hardened. Potter's nostrils flared. The light, nervous bouncing on the balls of his feet stilled into a sure stance. He stepped past and rapped his wand in fast sequence over the bricks. From what Draco recalled, it was only half of it, and, true to reason, individual bricks started to twitch and slide in weary groans. They stopped the arrangement half way through, brick edges cutting into a narrow view.

Draco's knees nearly buckled; it would have been the second time today.

Far off screaming and shattered glass.

Weak blades of light slashed through smoke.

The cobblestone streets were littered with bodies and glistened carmine, torn apart and motionless, wands useless in limp, mutilated hands.

The front windows of Flourish & Blott's were spewing bright orange flames, obstructing the view farther down the alley. Saucer-wide grey eyes fixed on the busted windows of Madame Malkin's. It was dark inside, but he could faintly see the old witch stumbling through the tattered remains of her shop. Draco could see she wasn't alone. Did she not see them? Why was she just standing there, eyes closed and- waiting? His mouth dropped open in a dry gasp.

"Shit- Malfoy, come on!" Potter nearly pulled his arm out of its socket, and then Draco was tripping, being dragged after the Gryffindor back through the empty pub. The Weasel was peaking out the front door. His brother and the ginger's wife standing off to the side, a protective arm over her shoulders.

"Is it clear? We need to go. Now."

Face solemn, the Weasel held up a hand and squinted harder into the crack of light. The other hand squeezed the wand held at his hip.

"Ron!" Potter barked. His hold still tight on Draco's upper arm, not that the blond was about to argue; his gaze was horror-stricken and glued on the other end of the bar where further back Diagon crumbled. In the dark-haired Auror's impatience, he jostled his captive more as his head whipped back and forth.

No, nothing coming. Yet.

"Is there any movement or not?"

Weasel's head twitched a negative.

"Bugger it, we need to go."

The brother stepped forward with well-restrained worry. "Harry, mate, when you went back there, did you…?" At Potter's darting eyes, he grimaced.

"He wouldn't listen. He had to see." His chin jerked at Draco. "There was some of them still around in the robe shop. I panicked."

A damning line throughout that gutted explanation flared in his absentminded hearing. Draco turned shocked eyes onto his captor. _He knew? _They quickly narrowed as he yanked himself from the second brute that got a hold of him today. "You saw... you saw and you didn't _help_?" he spat accusingly.

Something like guilt flickered in Potter's jade glare but when Weasel announced it was clear, it was smothered in a blink and he went to check for himself. He directed a quick nod at his partner and motioned for the other three to gather around. Draco didn't move save the tightening of his fists at his sides and his jaw groaning an enamel grit.

Now he wasn't the most altruistic person -well, perhaps one of the farthest examples of it- but good god this was Potter here! Saint Potter who championed for the muggleborns and half bloods and all things good and cute and nauseating. What changed?

Unless… unless what was wrong with Scorpius and Astoria was happening everywhere else.

"Malfoy!" He blinked and looked up. Potter appeared ready to haul him over his shoulder if need be. "Come on."

"You expect me to go out there? What about Apparating?"

"None of us can. It's like there's wards up."

"And even if we can," George interjected, "It'd be too dangerous for Angelina and the baby."

Ultimately Draco did not care about the safety of perpetuating the rapid offspring of the Weasley line, but his stomach dropped at the grim news that all feasible magical means of travel were gone. There was flying, of course, but he had no desire to venture into Diagon Alley and see how Quality Quidditch Supplies was holding up. The Floo, but apparently there was no telling where he'd end up or whether he'd survive the trip without acquiring a concussion.

"Fine, stay." Potter turned away, though it looked like a struggle for him to do so, and took up the front while Weasel guarded the rear, sandwiching the brother and his wife between the two. On the count of three, they slipped out of the door one by one with their wands at the ready. Draco squinted at the sharp daylight that flooded the dim pub until Weasley's tall silhouette spurned the black sway of the door.

Then, they were gone.

Silence clogged his ears, but if he strained he could vaguely hear the heavy breathing and crackle of Flourish & Blott's aflame. Was Madame Malkin through with her screams- did she even have time to? A barbed sense of utter aloneness spiraled down his stiff spine.

It could have been the fact he was once the reigning Prince of Slytherin and his house boasted cunning and wielding what was around you to your advantage all in the name of Ambition. But his name was that of Malfoy, the more innate prepossession of those attributes, and more importantly valued was self-preservation; It highlighted the path most logical in this forked road of whether or not to gamble his chances with the Boy Who Lived- _and wasn't that the kicker?_- or huff it alone, wandless.

Potter did have an astoundingly, annoying habit of living through things most would die from.

Reminding himself of this, the calculations took very little thought.

Draco scrambled after Potter.

Unforgiving sunlight greeted him upon his hasty exit. His hands flew up to shade his eyes. The far-off wailing of a banshee rung in is ears, and the breeze carried smoke to his lungs. Potter and his troupe were easy enough to spot at the end of the block, what with the bold scarlet robes and two heads of glaring red hair absorbing the rays of the sun. Oh and of course they were virtually the only movements up and down the street he could see. He set after them, making sure his pace was brisk but not hurried. That way when Weasley swiveled around at the sound of his approach and scowled, his sneer could only be believable.

"Held out longer than I thought," the Weasel commented as Draco passed. Draco chose not to dignify that with a response but instead faintly smirk as Potter hushed his partner in a harsh undertone. "We can't risk attracting one of those things!"

Down the intersecting street, flickering lights caught his eye. He frowned, wondering just what that white box-like muggle vehicle was for, overturned and cracked flashing red and blue against the pavement. The doors on the back were gaping open, a crimson-stained gurney hanging out like a sick tongue lolling. He then realized that awful wailing was coming from the vehicle. He turned away in a weak effort to block the grating noise out.

Glass crunched underneath their feet as Draco slipped around the married couple and fell into step with Potter. The Auror only treated him to a glance before going back to scanning the surroundings and warily pausing to inspect every busted store window and shadowed doorway before deeming it safe to pass. Draco made sure to appear he was doing much of the same, though his version involved one eye on the abandoned muggle cars congesting the street and the other monitoring Potter's pace so Draco could subtly match if not exceed it by a few inches every second or third step.

He may be without a wand and essentially -_helpless_- but none of these Gryffindors need realize it. Joining them was simple logic, not desperation. So walking up front portrayed fearlessness, though his insides rippled with every purring engine passed and the odd streak of red he noticed. He was a Malfoy after all, so if there happened to be any trouble he would graciously _**allow**_ these two Aurors to protect him; it was their job. But until (or if) that time came, Draco wasn't going to be their designated damsel in distress.

"This one," Potter's rough baritone broke the effortless, albeit tense silence. "It has the clearest route out." He stopped short, causing Draco to stumble to the side to avoid colliding with him. Draco hadn't noticed he had been walking that close, but then again where did that prat get off cutting in front of him like that?

Regardless Potter would have ignored the retort on the tip of his tongue and the indignant glare the blond shot him, too busy climbing into the driver's seat of a black car. Holding his wand between his teeth, he pried off the panel below the odd, thin circle and pulled out -what looked to Draco- a knot of colored strings and began twisting and connecting ends. A muffled curse slipped out every time a connection failed to do whatever it was supposed to do.

"What're you doing, Harry?" The Weasley Brother spoke over Draco's shoulder, too close and too sudden that the blond reflexively flinched in disgust, though he was thankful for the question asked. He was fascinated by the project before him, but he'd rather not ask for pride of not looking stupid.

Or _uncultured_, which was one of his mother's most used delicate phrases for those she found whose behavior less than impressive. Then again he was taught Muggles were primitive and had little culture to speak of, so could he be blamed for knowing so little about them? After all the Weasleys were "technically" purebloods and this one hadn't a clue. But Draco knew there was a difference.

He grimaced as Potter bit out in frustrated syllables that he was "hot-wiring" the vehicle.

What the Weasleys chose not to know was "Naïve Ignorance;" for Draco, it would be considered Prejudice. Plain and simple.

Watching the narrowed green of Potter's eyes, Draco realized what he noticed but couldn't pinpoint in the confusion before was that Potter had gotten ridden of those hideous glasses. Merlin, they were ugly things. The only reason Draco had never made a move to break them during their many skirmishes throughout Hogwarts was he'd actually be doing the speccy git a favor… But without them and at this angle, the tanned complexion with the strong jaw and straight nose with that snag of bared white teeth came together to create an all around not _bad_-looking bloke. Potter had certainly grown from the scraggly-

_What? No._

Draco quickly disguised his jolt of self-mortification with a bored roll of his head to look elsewhere and crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Must be the years of incarceration. _Honestly… it's Potter!_

"Harry!" whispered the Weasel. "There's one in the deli at your eleven o'clock."

Draco's eyes flickered that way to see in fact two figures (_great counting skills, Weaselby_) -women, judging by their petite frames but he could be wrong. Not much could be seen through the glare off the front windows, but the murmured conversation between the Aurors concluded that if the five of them didn't bring attention to themselves, the two milling about the wrecked interior of the deli would continue to do so. The group agreed with that in theory, watching with arrested muscles, except for Potter whose urgency with the "hot-wiring" increased smoothly. But after a moment, a third from the back shuffled in.

Then three became four; four turned into five; five to-

Draco wasn't sure how their attention was caught. The Gryffindorks would probably blame him for his _gleaming_ platinum hair and _flawless_ pale skin reflecting the sun with a vengeance; While the blond could certainly blame the Weasel for his tacky copper hair and scarlet robes wrapped around his staggering height, sticking out like a bleeding thumb-

Or it was both of these things or perhaps none of them. Just the natural awareness that every living creature possessed. But then again, Astoria had looked very far from "living" that morning.

One male outline -blurring with the others- suddenly stopped, whipped around, and stared directly at them. Like the herd instinct, the others jerked around. The strong, prickling sense of nearly a dozen pairs of glazed eyes squirmed and wriggled over Draco's skin.

Potter had paused his fiddling to witness the turn. An audible gulp and then he spoke softly, not taking his eyes off the stilled bodies.

"Everyone get in the car now."

Glass erupted from across the street.

"Now!" shouted Potter.

Weasley jerked open the side door. His brother ushered his wife in first and got in after her. While the redhead shot spells over the roof of the vehicle: Immobilizing and binding spells, trip jinxes, repelling charms, none of it seemed to be working. The howling monsters that jumped through the shattered windows seemed to be marginally affected by the rapid fire hexing, staggering for a moment but pressing onward nonetheless. Clothes torn and twisted faces lined with congealed scratches. A sharp dig into Draco's back -voices yelling from inside the vehicle- and he clumsily ducked inside. One body slammed on the other side, rocking the car, and another leapt onto the hood. Draco's head banged against the ceiling and his long legs got tangled up with the Brother's, but the fist at his spine dug more insistently so he dove into the front seat. His shoulder banged into Potter's and he caught himself before his chin met a swollen end on the dashboard.

The one on the hood pounded at the glass with gnarled hands, bubbled saliva drip drip dripping and smearing with each hit. A thunderclap abruptly pierced the motley of screeches and pounding, the one on the hood toppled backwards and out of sight onto the pavement. As one by one the crowd thinned in sporatic booms and a red spray, Draco's head frantically whipped around wondering what the hell that was. The sound repeatedly punctured his eardrums and it stopped once Weasley slammed inside -flashing silver in his hand- but the sound continued to ring there; underneath it rattled the window next to his head. A heavy old woman with swinging jowls spat at him from the other side, a whole quarter inch of muggle-made glass between him and the smacking of her open, stained palms. Naturally he shied away -face twisted in repulsion- until he bumped into something warm, Potter.

"For fuck's sake," Draco sputtered, voice high and panicky, joining in with the rest of the car's occupants' chorus of pleading for Potter to -according to the Wife- "Hurry the hell up."

Perspiration clung to his black hairline while a scowl wrenched the lower half of his face. Noticing fists battering all the windows, Draco's heart nestled in his throat swelled with the size of his eyes. Darting grey locked onto those ungraceful fingers playing with those blasted strings.

"Get on with it, _Scarhead_!"

Already pushed to the edge with the shouting (and not just from those inside the car) it seemed Draco's unintentional yet overly snotty outburst tipped it for the Auror.

Knotted work snatched into his fists, Potter's head snapped in the blond's direction. His eyes narrowed to green slits. His chest puffed and he said haughtily, "My apologies, Malfoy, for not paying closer attention once my cousin and his gang got through beating me up before stealing one of the neighbor's cars for a spot of joyriding."

"Please! Like I care a whit for your pathetic, muggle childhood. At the moment, it clearly shows-"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a bloody wizard, aren't you? Act like one."

"And what am I to cast, huh? You need a **key** for this."

From the back, both Weasley brothers were calling for their friend's attention and were so far unsuccessful. The two up front were just too far gone with their glaring and scathing words.

"_Ennervate_? That's your suggestion? That may be the stupidest thing I've ever-"

"Oh fuck you! You come up with better then."

"-heard and especially coming from you, Malfoy." Potter scoffed. His jaw hinged into a hard, slanted line.

The Wife screamed -what felt like- right inside Draco's ear. His sneer at Potter snagged like the wrong note of a squealing violin. Apparently her window had cracked. His narrowed eyes blazed at the hard-headed Auror. His brain practically vibrated with all the panic and aggravation and exterior stimuli.

"Fine!" Potter spat and stabbed his wand at his tangle of strings. "_**Ennervate**_!"

Two clicks sliced through the cacophony, and then a telltale roar. Potter shot a grimace at the blond, but Draco was more concerned with the hag clawing at his window than feeling smug. He would save that for later.

_If there is a later_.

At the shouts of "GO," Potter tugged on a stick behind the wheel and the entire vehicle lurched forward, knocking over those at the front. Draco watched in suppressed amazement as fierce concentration stole over his old rival's features; he didn't know Potter could focus on other things besides his own over exaggerated self worth. A static crackle built inside the car until, with a heavy gust from Potter's flared nostrils, it exploded outward, throwing back the raging creatures gathered around a good few meters. Draco shivered with the power of it, staring down at the hag's swinging jowls as she struggled on her back like a damn turtle. Potter stomped on one of the pedals, rolling over thrashing bumps and snapping bones, as it gained speed. Limping figures shrunk rapidly in the side mirrors. Draco's hand slammed down on the dash when it appeared they were about to crash head-on into an overturned vehicle. Wands flicked from the back, and it went flying into a muggle clothing shop. From there, the Weasels took care of road obstructions, inanimate and animate alike.

Draco had been to muggle London all of seven times: The latest having been his trial at the Ministry, but he didn't care to think any longer on that than his first year of house arrest spent brooding on the stifled proceedings and brewing lethal, near untraceable poisons he never really planned to use on each member of the Wizengamot- oh, and Potter. The six trips before that were the traditional coming and going from King's Cross; but even then the enchanted Rolls Royce's windows were tinted to shaded mirrors. _"We mustn't have our eyes soiled with having to gaze upon the Muggle Filth,"_ his father had offered first year by way of explanation. Considering all Lucius had told him about the non-magic people, Draco hadn't ever questioned it.

Funny how this was the first time he was really seeing this world, and he was watching it burn. _Father and his pals would be pissing themselves in glee._

It had been decided between the two Aurors that it was best to head out of the city; those things seemed to be everywhere: Standing about or-or chasing something. Sometimes Draco would lean in close -nose brushing the glass- with his eyes centering on the ones crouching, their heads bowed like dogs, and deny what they were doing, though he had seen Scorpius doing much of the same little over an hour ago. _Wow, just an hour… _

Each time a strangled noise would sound in the back of his throat, and the vehicle would speed up. The surrounding conversation buzzed in the background.

The streets had opened up some, giving the two panting brothers in the back a rest from clearing the path. The car jerked sharply to side once again, a stringy-haired blur almost clipping the side mirror.

"Why don't you just run them over?" was softly spoken from the back as the Wife held her round stomach.

"Because they're-!" Potter's near shout cut off abruptly and the next he spoke was after a quiet, shuddering breath. "… because they're still people. I can't just-… I just _can't_."

The three Weasleys had nothing to say to that.

And Draco felt detached from the entire car ride.

Several turns later and buildings were blending into trees; the roads widened and other motorists were punching their horns, stuck in a traffic jam stretching for kilometers out of sight.

Somewhat confused as to why they stopped, Draco slowly looked around. Muggles were stuck in their metal boxes, shouting muffled curses and pounding their fists. A man dashed past the window, screaming, "They have my children! They have my children!" Off in the distance, he could just make out what could only be a naked woman, her pale skin streaked vermilion, wandering between the cars. A red, Muggle-version of the Knight Bus caught his attention: Windows fogged and the slightest rocking of a violent commotion inside; suddenly a terrified face slammed against the back window -a bloody stump came into view- until they were wrenched out of sight completely.

Draco watched the entire scene with wide eyes but didn't scream. He was beyond such reactions.

He had no voice.

The Wife had once again shrieked in his ear, but his acknowledgement was no more than a ripple on the surface. A hefty sigh to Draco's right sounded before Potter was maneuvering the small car out of traffic and directing it down a grassy decline.

"Harry?"

Face a gritted-teeth example of concentration, he kept the vehicle at a steady speed skimming along the hill at its awkward angle. "Look, those cars aren't going to move for hours, and at the moment I just think we should get as far from London as we can."

"But what about Herm-"

"I know, Ron- okay? I know. She's probably-" He stopped then with a grated curse, stamping on the brakes and effectively losing control of the wheel. They slid fast and faster, forwards and sideways, tires grinding. Draco's fingers dug bruises into his thighs -shouts in his ears and eyes wide- as the tree line spun into view. With a splintering crack and metallic crunch, their rapid descent stopped. Everyone was thrown to the right. The window cracked into a spider web pattern.

The truck that had whipped out in front of them continued on its way without pause.

A blaring in his ears was the first thing he became aware of. The second was warmth, smothering warmth surrounding his head, shoulders, and arms. Grey eyes opened blearily to blood red fabric, rough and durable on his cheek. A soft but firm wall swelling and falling rhythmically against his head. Stifling.

Neck aching, the smell of smoke and fresh springs filled his lungs. The cocoon of cloth around him twitched and moved. Then recent memory struck him at once. Faster than in fourth year when he was unceremoniously forced down Vince's trousers by that lunatic of a professor, Draco scrambled backwards and out. Sunshine and cool air smacking him in the face, his sore back slammed up against the vehicle door. Two spots of color erupted high in his cheeks as he watched Potter shift and release a long groan, slumped over inflated white. Draco's eyes darted to those in the backseat, slowly coming to from their positions as knocked dominoes.

Oh good, so they didn't see him nestled in Potter's lap.

Minutes passed of tested kinks and questions circulating on each other's well being. As both brothers were fumbling over the pregnant wife's condition -she was fine, _"Absolutely fine, George"- _Potter turned towards him, rubbing the side of his head, and asked thoughtlessly how Draco was. Mind flickering to what -more specifically _who_- cushioned the impact, Draco only replied with a stiff nod.

Scanning through the windows, Potter reached down to the floor and grabbed around for his wand. "Let's get out of here then." Having found it, he looked towards Draco, expectation written on his face.

Draco hadn't a clue.

The three Weasleys were already scooting out.

"Malfoy? Um… I can't get out seeing as my door is pinned shut by a tree so…"

The chauffeur always tended to car doors. Unsure and a touch insulted, Draco examined said door. Shouldn't the Weasel open it for him? It was more his station after all…

Potter spoke up at his shoulder. "That controls the window, try the latch."

The snide retort remained rooted to his tongue. The door pulled and swung open with little effort. Draco got out on shaky legs, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around himself as the sun beat down mercilessly on their group.

"Alright, can either of you Apparate now? Yes, George, I remember it's not good for the baby. It's just good to know, in case." Heads shook, Draco knowing better: There was no boxed-in sense of anti-Apparation jinxes and judging by Boy Wonder's grimace, he knew this also. A new wave of confusion and hopelessness came over Draco then. What the hell was going on?

Once again he cursed himself for leaving his wand.

"I can't Disapparate either, so… we walk." The choice being between the woods or the lines of wailing muggle vehicles at the top of the steep slope. Potter made the decision by striding into the break in the trees and leaving the smoking car behind. Three Weasleys trailed after their Chosen One like ducklings.

Grey eyes lingered on the red bus and saw matching stains dribbling down fogged glass. They tore away at the snap of twigs. Draco turned and followed, feeling very much like this was a dream. A very, very bad dream, made worse by sifting through bushes and swatting away bugs.

Thankfully it didn't last long. The leaf-strewn earth changing abruptly to smooth black.

The quintet stood at the tree line, staring across the steaming expanse of black at the large, pale building looming before them.

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><p>Thank you to all those who reviewed andor alerted this! It makes my day really. Sad, I know. Please leave a review if you have the time. :)


	3. Hurt Much

Disclaimer from Chapter 1 still applies.

I'm not sure if they have standalone shopping malls in the UK, but for the story's sake please suspend your disbelief for that. Enjoy! ... maybe?

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><p><strong>III. Hurt Much<strong>

The deliberation was short-lived. The building ahead was better than nothing and being out in the open wasn't much of an option.

"Come on then," Harry announced, gritting his teeth over how his voice held more resignation than confidence, and began to march across the empty lot to the shopping mall. Footsteps trailed in his wake. His eyes scanned left and right but spotted nothing of concern. They approached a well-shaded loading dock. Without pause he reached out and pushed the buzzer.

No answer.

All their backs turned, the quiet scuffle on asphalt went unnoticed.

Trying the buzzer again and once again receiving nothing, Harry pointed his wand at the lock. Ron, standing at his side and still with the standard-issued Glock 17 pistol glinting in hand, caught Harry's eye. His teeth unconsciously bared at the sight. "I can not believe you still have that out- let alone used it," he muttered scathingly. "_Aloha_-"

"Worked, didn't it?" Ron shrugged, unrepentant.

"That's not the point-"

Angelina's scream and the moan of a dying seal mingled like a demented melody in the air.

Normally a petite brunette woman in a pink jogging suit running towards them wouldn't pose much concern, if not for the mangled flesh of one cheek was all that was keeping her jaw attached, simply a dangling curve of bone and gore, tongue a thrashing slug foaming as if doused with salt. Harry's own throat burned with bile at the swaying, dripping sight with each foot pound on pavement. By now George had pulled Angelina behind him and started firing off spells, though they weren't doing much at all. Harry didn't know magic could be suddenly so _ineffectual_. It was only a matter of seconds before-

Thunderclaps previously confined to the newly added shooting range at MLE went off in jolting succession at his side. The only evidence of Ron's aim amongst the faux-pink velvet was the split-second rips, good grouping in the chest; the jogger jerking but kept coming.

More were coming, the gunfire attracting them.

"_**Alohamora**_." The steel door swung inward. Malfoy's starched collar was snatched in Harry's grasp for seconds, just enough to yank the blond backwards and shove him inside. Angelina and George rushed in after. Harry positioned himself one foot in the door. "Ron!"

The jogger finally went down after a messy shot to the head. "Got it, Harry."

"No. You don't." Then he grabbed him also. The chamber in their guns were charmed to reload but only so many times. Wrestling Ron inside took too long. The one-armed Asian, all bright face and snapping teeth, threw his whole weight against the closing door, forcing the three men behind it back a stumbled step.

"_Fuck_," George grunted, sounding amazed. "So strong."

"Hold it," Harry ground out and stepped away, letting the two brothers take the bulk. Facing the sticky red stump and body scrambling through the crack with head-banging one-mindedness, he sent it flying back with a flick of his wand. The door slammed shut under the sudden, unopposed weight and strength of the two Weasley men. The dead bolt was subsequently engaged.

Breaths catching, everyone's eyes were drawn to Angelina's lit wand tip, washing all in its reach an eerie blue in the dark. Harry's gaze slid a little more to Malfoy slumped against the wall, his hair, skin, and shirt glowing, except for the blacks stains splashed across the material in startling contrast. He stood quietly, staring at the ground and showing no such indignation over being manhandled.

The perfect picture of Dejection.

Tearing himself away, Harry whispered a _Lumos_ of his own and moved farther into the room and gladly away from the undeniable full-body slams against the steel door thundering in the space. Uneven box towers surrounded them on both sides. A light switch on the wall revealed a plain break/store room. Just to be sure, he checked the phone mounted beside the fridge and just as he expected heard no dial tone. They then ventured out into a women's clothing boutique. The lighting was better but not by much. The doors were locked and caged.

Seeing Ron still holding the pistol like a sodding prayer, a surge of irritation ran through him like a bolt. _He fucking shot at people- human beings. _Harry stepped up to the window display, grabbed the scantily dressed mannequin, and swung it into a spectacular show of raining glass. An alarm screeched, but he couldn't be arsed to care, jumping down to the other side. At the admonishing shouts and curses over the noise, he simply shrugged. Killing two birds with one stone: 1) He found them a way out; and 2) He substitutes hitting his best mate with something else. A Win/Win that.

The only person who didn't yell at him was Malfoy. The slightest twinge in his too pale face was his loudest protest. He followed Harry down without prompting, his every movement steeped in wariness.

Eventually the others stepped down from the other side. Just as George was reaching up to assist Angelina, the wailing shut off abruptly, leaving their ears oddly bereft. Pastel-shaded Muzak played in the newly silent air.

"Come on," he whispered distractedly, scanning their surroundings. Only his footsteps could be heard crunching glass. When he glanced back, red heads swiveled to absorb the unfamiliar place and stood where he left them several paces back. "Now I know neither of you have been in a Muggle mall before-" His eyes darted to the ex-Slytherin out of years-old habit, expecting to see the revulsion on that pointed face or to hear that inevitable snide comment but there was only a nonplussed, faraway stare. Harry traced his line of sight to a set of escalators blocked off with piled kiosks and trash bins.

"Pay attention. We're obviously not alone in here."

That statement seemed to have refocused the two befuddled Weasley brothers for their wandering gazes adopted a more aware glint.

The group moved at a slow but steady pace through the first floor. The large skylights fixed in the overhead ceiling painted malevolent shadows. Some stores were open but dark, others still caged. The flowery soundtrack and abandoned shops built a haunted house of Consumerism. Up ahead light poured through a string of glass double doors. Harry moved quickly around the bench-curved fountain and systematically went down the row, testing each door; all were locked. He turned around in time to watch George help his wife sit; Malfoy was already propped, straight-backed, a quarter of the circle away. The blond seemed to be staring hard at the glitter granite wall, stiff and blank like a statue.

"So now what?" Ron asked, not quite meeting his eyes. Harry supposed his show of destructive anger with the mannequin finally made sense to the redhead.

Instead of feeling maliciously satisfied with the other's sheepishness, he focused on the question. He sighed. Once again Harry found himself the one looked to for answers. He should probably be used to it, what with the war and the "Chosen One" exaggerations, but he just didn't want to be. This -what was going on- was different, and he was flying completely blind. Despite that he was Auror-trained (one of the best in the department), and once upon a time a Gryffindor; though he wasn't sure if he could claim he lived through worse yet…

_Right. _First thing's first, "Secure the area," he said with certainty he didn't necessarily feel. "Ron, you check the left half and I'll take the right-"

"No," George spoke up, rising from his spot beside Angelina. "Ron, stay with her. You've got that goon thing, after all. I'll go." At his wife's protest, he shot her a look that brooked no argument and pressed a kiss to her furrowed brow. Harry was sure that had the feisty ex-Gryffindor chaser not been what appeared to be in her third trimester, she'd be fighting her husband tooth and nail; as it were, she settled down with a frown holding her round belly. Ron already took guard at her side as George joined Harry.

Harry turned to address Malfoy, but at second thought kept his mouth shut. He doubted the Slytherin's general usefulness and would probably end up being more of a hassle to ask anything of him than it was worth. So with a nod at his Auror partner -purposefully bypassing the revolver in his large hand- Harry started the search.

Every store confirmed empty was a slight nostril-flared sigh of relief. He pointed his wand ahead of him first and foremost though every once in a while throughout the tedious search he'd forget George was across the way shuffling around in unpracticed stealth and sparking his war-frayed nerves to the point the Glock strapped to his thigh was a reassuring weight. Near the back of a pungent candle shop, a door to the outside stood gaping; fortunately upon peeking out he saw nothing. But the door was troubling to say the least. Easing it shut and twisting the lock, he called over his shoulder, "Open door! Everyone be on the look out!"

* * *

><p>Draco sat still, having not moved an inch since he eased himself down on the fountain bench, so concerned with breathing a steady in and out pace and keeping his exterior a calm, uninterested surface in lieu of the Weasel's barrage of uninspired taunts. Though to be accurate he didn't listen too closely to the words: All he knew was unwanted sounds were coming from his ugly freckled face, soaked in stupid and accumulating into a mumble of moronic dribble. It was grating whenever his focus slipped and he was forced to endure a few seconds of Weasel's threats of hexes and the wife's weary admonishments for him to give it a rest. Draco wanted to make known his agreement with the pregnant woman, but then again not only was she born a Gryffindork, she allowed a <em>Weasley<em> to get her up the duff. Her disgustingly poor judgments put her only a germ better than the Weasel. Draco didn't need or certainly want her defending him, even out of politeness between virtual strangers; and he would whip around to tell the ballooned bint that but he was implicitly sure that if his face were to rearrange itself from the blank mask that he carefully constructed, it would shift and crumble in jagged cracks and the suppressed emotions roiling inside his chest would burst forth like pressurized acid, sizzling and eating him whole and leave nothing left but a-

"Open door! Everyone be on the look out!" Potter's voice echoed down to them.

_Right. _Draco's breathing had sped up with his runaway thoughts, but in no time he had them back under his control. Occlumency truly did wonders if utilized correctly.

* * *

><p>As soon as Harry stepped foot into the dark sporting goods store, he smelled it. A sourness infused with the air. His body froze -breath held- and tried to sense movement.<p>

_There._

Straight ahead and off to the right.

Upon silencing his footsteps, he wavered slightly with magical exhaustion. All those bursts of wandless magic earlier were finally catching up to him. None of that could matter though. With a deep inhale -cringing from the stink- and measured exhale steeling his resolve, he crept across the room and behind the counter. The stench of iron only became stronger down the short hallway. A crack of light sliced through the dark and drew him nearer. A film of nervous sweat broke out over his skin, the grip on his wand becoming slippery. The sign on the door was for a single uni-sex restroom, while a cart of cleaning supplies stood abandoned outside of it.

And the very last thing he wanted to do at the moment was to open it.

Grotesque images ran rampant through his mind, turning his stomach to lead. Despite the gory workings of his imagination, curiosity insisted and urged the fingertips of his left hand to brush against the cool surface and nudge it to soundlessly creep open.

His gag reflex was not prepared for the visual presented to him: Eyes fixed immediately on the crater of intestines and fluorescent light-slick organs and a bowed bald head buried in the squishing mess, noisily chomping away. A spike of sound drew his attention. A hand was reaching shakily for him.

_**Oh. **__Oh Gods. _That man was still alive, paler than death and the twisted wrinkles on his face stark with agony. Shiny, beetle-black eyes imploring. A litany of quiet, moans spilling from colorless lips like a babbling brook. Harry's insides lurched at the sight and, without thinking, he staggered backwards into the hall -retinas aching from exposure to horror framed in bleached white- back thumping against the opposite wall.

With a wet snort, a viciously smiling maw dripping with gore looked up from its half-chewed feast.

"_**Immobulus**_!" The spell visibly rippled and sunk into the creature. Harry dashed back the way he came, hoping to put more distance than just a few feet between them. Skidding before the counter, a force bowled him over and together they toppled over in a thrashing heap on the other side.

* * *

><p>Everyone, even Draco, jumped to their feet at the sudden crash. The Weasel surged forward, his "goon thing" drawn as he slowly stepped around the fountain. Sensing his pulse was about to skyrocket, Draco's hands curled into fists and he focused on the dribbling fountain at his back instead of staring at nothing like Weasley. The thing would actually be quite stylish with its black marble and sparkling play of light if he didn't know it was Muggle-made… sat around and admired by muggles, then all he saw were its flaws: The chips and cracks and the sporadic stutter within the smooth flow of water. Typically enough, that put him at the prickly unease just before fight or flight.<p>

"George!" The wife shouted uncertainly after several beats of surface quiet.

Draco involuntarily hissed at her outburst. _That's right, make sure whatever's gobbling down your ginger husband knows we're here too. _Subsequently he wondered why it wasn't Potter his mind didn't automatically condemn to a gruesome fate. Then again, anything to have one less Weasley in the world.

A low rumble coaxed the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Just as he turned his head in the sound's direction, a blur of white and black leapt towards where he and the wife stood. She shrieked as a man in uniform grabbed a stronghold on her arm. The Weasel shouted, running back to her side and shoving Draco out of the way. The blond stumbled backwards and fell on his bum. Despite not knowing her blood status, Draco would suspect a banshee tainted somewhere in her line by the way she wailed. Draco watched from the floor as the Weasel tore the uniformed man away from her, the momentum spinning the pair towards the fountain. An odd thunk, a shout, then a tidal wave splash soaked his already stained and ripped trousers.

* * *

><p>Mid-fall, Harry tried to twist out of the fingers digging into his spine. He only managed to maneuver within those few seconds to land with a grunt on his back, followed by a clatter of cricket bats spilling out from their stand. Air whooshed from his lungs. Reddened teeth snapped at his face through his spotty vision.<p>

Wand forgotten, acting on dimmed instinct, he held the foaming man at bay with determined muscles pushing at thrashing biceps. At one wild wrench, his hold slipped and saliva globbed on his cheek and the stench of iron and something disgustingly organic oiled his face in wheezing gusts. Sports equipment rattled on their shelves. He tried to kick his legs out to upend the relatively dead weight pressing down on his ribcage.

His eyes darted to the side at the spread of bats scattered on the floor.

* * *

><p>All he could see of the Weasel over the fountain's edge was long kicking legs and sopping robe sleeves. His arms appeared locked as freckled hands squeezed choking sounds from the body pinning him down. It seemed the only way to keep those snapping teeth back was by staying under the one foot of water and allowing the solid surface beneath his shoulder blades to do most of the work. Draco would laugh at him if it were any other time that idiot was essentially drowning himself, but it wasn't and the position reminded him too much of Astoria lunging at his face, all matted golden hair and sharp pearly teeth.<p>

He groaned when the revelation came to him: Someone was going to have to help the poor twat.

And Draco sorely wished it wouldn't have to be him, but the wife was petrified on the spot with her arms wrapped around her; her husband was likely an entrée; and where was that fuckwit, Potter?

* * *

><p>Arms began to tremble under the rabid force. Harry braced his forearm against its collarbone while the other hand reached out and sacrificed a few precious inches of distance between him and snapping fangs. Fingers strained towards the nearest bat.<p>

* * *

><p>For the umpteenth time that day, Draco cursed himself for forgetting his wand. Spending day after day inside the manor being waited on by house elves lessened the urgency to always have it on hand. <em>Damn it.<em>

Gurgling bubbles joined the splashing water, Where was the wife's wand? His eyes scanned all around, to the hands cupping her round belly to the floor. Nothing but that glistening Muggle contraption that made those horrible noises. It was cool and heavy in the cradle of his hands. Slight fumbling to hold it the way Weasel had it.

_Er... how does it work again?_

* * *

><p>Just as Harry's fingers brushed the cricket bat's handle, a crack erupted down its paddled center creating a jagged splinter. Gripping it into his palm -its shattered side cutting into his skin- he angled the sharp point just so. His eyes slammed shut just as he sipped in a breath.<p>

He didn't watch as he let the bracing arm drop and winced under the sick tear of flesh now hovering over him in a limp heap. With a grunt, he shoved the body off him and rolled to his side, curling away from the mess to momentarily catch his breath. He jolted into a sitting position when he heard the gunshot.

* * *

><p>White hot lightening exploded behind his eyelids Draco didn't even realize he slammed shut before tentatively pulling the trigger until they were flicking open through a blur of tears. His lip was throbbing, and there was a shrill ringing in his ears. When his mind could finally think past its own stunned state, the Weasel was climbing out of the fountain and fixing him an utterly baffled look.<p>

"Bloody 'ell, Ferret." The drowned Weasel snatched the weapon from Draco's trembling, too-tight clutches. Both their breathing labored, the blond suppressed his own barely audible pants. Whatever faint glint of gratitude was lost in the suspicious narrow of blue eyes. He opened his mouth to say more, but the Brother was running up to them, sweeping his wife into his arms and having an urgent, whispered conversation spattered with kisses and hugs so nauseating in their frequency Draco sneered despite his busted lip.

Something seemed to click between all four of them then: The crash. If Joke Weasley was here then…

"Shite, Harry!" Favoring his right arm, the Weasel was off. The rest followed; Draco at a more sedate pace and brushing his tongue across the stinging split-seam. His vision strayed on the man seizuring in the fountain, shoulder exposed and trickling scarlet and apparently no longer a threat.

* * *

><p>By the time Harry recovered his wand amongst the mayhem of sports equipment and was tearing out of the store to check on his friends, he found all three bounding towards him with relieved expressions at having seen him intact. Malfoy trailed behind them with a vicious scowl, made more daunting by the red weeping from his lip and down his chin.<p>

"What happened to you?" he asked the blond at first wide-eyed gander at his injury. Silver eyes pierced green with unspoken, blazing hatred.

Ron nudged Harry in the opposite direction, the whole group heading for the lifts. "Don't worry 'bout him, mate. Limp-wristed idiot didn't take into account the gun's kick-back-"

He could hear said "Limp-wrested idiot" grumbling none too quietly, "Gee, I wonder for who and what for... ingrate"

The explanation of the comment became quite clear when both Aurors exchanged brief summaries of the last few minutes. Understanding struck him once Ron concluded his share.

"He saved your life." Harry felt a bit awed and dazed piecing together his friend's stilted end of the story.

"You're welcome for that, Weaselby," Malfoy piped in snidely from behind them.

"And judging by his sarcasm, you didn't even thank him." The tips of Ron's ears turned a bright red and pinched lips mumbled, "It's only Malfoy, and Merlin knows who he was really aimin' at."

"But still, Ron, it's only right," Harry insisted. Never in his wildest imagination could he have seen himself bullying Ron into thanking Malfoy for saving the other's life.

Today had just been full of surprises so far.

Face now scorching, Ron made a show of pushing the button to the lift before glancing back at his still-hated enemy. The first word was quiet and grudging, "Thanks-" before Malfoy cut in with a derisive snort.

"Don't even bother. I only did it before that thing got through with you and came after me. I look forward to having you in my debt, Weasley." That same razor-blade smirk from their school days made cruder by his busted lips was flashed. Just as Ron turned away in a huff and an, "I told you so," the sadistic expression seemed to lose its edge and Malfoy tucked his hands into his pockets, looking away from Harry's stern glare.

The doors parted for the lift and everyone walked in except _three guesses who and the first two don't count._

"I'm not getting in that small space with you people."

"Come on, Malfoy, there's no other way."

Arms crossed and a nose pointed in the air. Eyes supposedly glaring elsewhere slid to the side under their lashes and traced the doorway with curiosity and distrust.

"It'll take us up to the second level," Harry explained. "It'll last ten, fifteen seconds at the most." It didn't seem the other man was going to budge, until some warped thought of his wrenched his scowl another notch and he stomped onto the lift, the others giving him a wide berth as they pressed against the opposing walls. _Probably realized I was trying to reassure him. _Harry grinned.

The ride, as promised, was quick. Ron suffered a large gash on his arm when he fell into the fountain. A tap of Harry's wand and the wound stitched itself into a pink line, though it would be tender for the next few hours. Harry offered to heal Malfoy, but the one fleeting glance the blond shot him from his constant observation of the ceiling and doors was one of brief surprise quickly morphing into disgust, his gaze burning into Harry's cheek. Remembering the glob that had plopped onto his cheek during his recent struggle, he hastily scrubbed at the sticky crust with his robe sleeve. Heat flooded his face when the hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of Malfoy's crimson-slick lips.

His suspicions of other people held up in the mall proved correct when the lift doors folded back and two pistol barrels were shoved in his face. The only shock was-

"_Dudley_?" Harry's eyes widened past the gun centered on his nose to the equally shocked face of his cousin. He was still considerably huge, in height and in girth. At his side with his own firearm trained on Malfoy, who simply stared at it with a blank expression, was a taller and uglier Piers Polkiss. On the other side of his cousin -mostly hiding behind the circumference of solid fat- was a smaller, meeker teenage boy; a gun squeezed in his shaking fist but pointed toward the ground.

"Why don't we put those down, yeah?" George spoke over Ron's shoulder.

"Shut up," snapped Piers, twitching his gun in the direction of the redhead. It would only be a matter of seconds before George exploded into the famous Weasley temper, the fuse shortened now when it came to his wife and child, so Harry smoothly stepped in that line of fire and raised his wand along side Ron's revolver. Both guns in his face cocked in near unison. The doors started to close, and Harry slammed a hand up to send them back.

The youngest security guard looked as if he were on the precipice of cardiac failure. "What the hell are you guys doing?" he squeaked, head on a swivel. "That's _Harry Potter_!"

And closer inspection revealed something long and thin weighing down his sleeve.

At the announced recognition, a snort to Harry's right signified the imperceptible roll of Malfoy's eyes.

"I know who he is," Dudley spat, having finally broken out of his stupor at "the freak's" sudden reappearance in his life.

"But you're a muggle. How do you-"

"Go find somewhere else. This is our place."

"But there is nowhere else," Ron insisted.

Recognition flared in Dudley's beady eyes, touching from one Weasley to the next. More freak friends in those weird clothes. The childhood fear was there of course, but fear of something much worse that they all shared hardened into a stubborn glare. "No, our place. The second we start letting people in, control goes to shit."

"Yeah, and you already made a mess of downstairs," Piers added eagerly.

Harry, along with everyone else present ignored him. "Dudley, please," And didn't those words taste once familiar and infinitely sour on his tongue, but some things were just more important than pride and swallowing it for his pig cousin was a concession he was willing to make. "We're not here to take control or anything from you. We only need some place to rest, alright?" he said, face earnest. "Angelina here is pregnant. We can't go anywhere else right now."

The gun in Harry's face lowered a fraction, and the shadow of that years ago expression of fear mixed with uncertainty when Dudley told his cousin he wasn't a complete waste of space before the Order whisked him and his parents away to safety, eased the sharp lines in his round face. Then Piers with his twitching rat face had to scoff and erased the little progress Harry was making with Dudley.

This time Ron reached forward and smacked the doors back.

Harry's wand pointed at Piers in frustration, ready to hex the tosser. Magic against Muggles be damned, they were having a stand-off on a bleeding lift. A sharp intake of breath from his cousin, burning green snapped back and saw in his cousin the little fat boy squealing in terror and sporting a curly pigtail. They all might be safe for now from those monsters, but he could tell Dudley remembered a threat that had him cowering from his puny, four-eyed cousin throughout most of his teenage years.

"That's right, Dudders, I'm well over the legal age and I can use this whenever, right now if I want. We each have one." He knew the Slytherin beside him wouldn't admit to being weaponless if it raised his advantage, so Harry continued without hesitation. "I'm part of magical law enforcement-"

"One of the department's best," Ron interjected, having cottoned onto Harry's point.

"So's Ron. We know how to deflect your bullets so I suggest lowering your weapon, Polkiss. We can do a lot of things to you on the right side of the law." His face stayed calm and his tone flat and sure, though triumph pumped its fist once he noticed a distinct lack of color in Dudley's face. Harry knew the one thing to tip the scales.

Allowing himself a small smirk, he cocked his head in Malfoy's direction. "You remember those evil men in black robes and white masks I told you about? Well, he's one of them, and I'm sure he knows plenty of dark, nasty, horrible things to do to you. Very painful. Very illegal." Harry didn't doubt that. "Those invisible things that summer when you were fifteen?"

Dudley nodded dumbly.

"I bet he could summon them, like _that_," he accented with the snap of his fingers.

Okay, so that last was a bit of a lie, but the handler of the gun in his face needn't know that. It worked though: Dudley backed out of the way, horror-stricken and looking at Malfoy like he was the Devil himself come to shag Dudley's fat, virgin arse with a barbwired, foot-long prick. The awe-struck teenager was looking pale himself, his bulging stare darting from Malfoy's stoic expression to the blood-spattering sleeve of his left forearm. The only one who appeared totally unfazed was Piers, laughing and struggling to hold his gun level while clutching at his gut.

"You're daft! What're you gonna do with a _stick, _huh?"

Still too terrified for words, Dudley backed up another step and yanked his friend with him.

"The hell, man?" Piers sobered at the pull backwards threatening his balance. "Dud?"

"Shut it," was whispered in reply.

Slowly, one by one they filed off the lift. Some things apparently never change, because after a few short words Piers was a silent entity by Dudley's side, eyes slitted but firearm wisely lowered to his leg. Harry kept his wand covertly trained on him just in case.

* * *

><p>Minutes later Draco found himself, along with the others, staring at a large box with moving pictures. They were surrounded by several of these boxes but most were black while others were blue or striped with colors emitting a drawn out, rather annoying beep. He frowned, puzzled if these were the Muggle versions of enchanted portraits. He rather look at the blank ones, they didn't fill him with cold dread with each image, but the war zone chaos and the commentary between the two ugly muggles, grey eyes kept returning to the lively box without fail.<p>

_**"… destroyed an apartment complex in north Cambridge as part of the first quarantines. Residents of the building had stopped responding to…"**_

"Lookit that… ooh, an A10 Warthog. That is one superior aircraft," the rat-faced one boasted, crossing his arms and acting as if he created that odd flying machine himself.

The other man, fat and skittish around Draco very much thanks to Potter who somehow knew him was watching the switching pictures without blinking. "Fuckers inside don't have a chance, not a fucking chance," he murmured darkly.

Draco wondered if he was misunderstanding some code amongst Muggles. What did they mean-

The plain building they had boringly kept on screen for the past few minutes burst in a mess of flames: The right side of its base was nothing but a crater as the rest crumbled and broke apart; windows spewed heavy black smoke; the vision zoomed in from its far distance to focus on fiery blurs plummeting from the sides. A female's voice droned, probably explaining, but Draco was too appalled by the destruction. Another blur of orange fell to an out of sight end through the four white capital letters stamped in the corner: **Live**

"Excuse me, but where's the loo?" the Wife asked, voice still trembling.

"Nuh-uh, none of you are getting out of my sight," the fat oaf mumbled distractedly, eyes glued to the inferno contained in the box.

"Alright, mate," said the brother Weasel good-naturedly, "You just tell us where in here you want us to take a piss."

Draco's nose wrinkled in disdain. Wasn't there such a thing as decorum? Must the blood traitor be as crass as the muggle?

It became apparent the intimidation extended as far as himself and Potter since the muggle could be heard over the talking box exhaling a long-suffering sigh and ordering the young wizard, "Terry," (very obviously a mudblood) to escort her. "Round the corner, that way."

"Hey where do you think you're goin'?" Though rudely asked as it was, wasn't enough to drag away Draco's gaze from the mayhem spinning in a rectangular cut-out before him.

"I'm going with her. She needs me."

"Fuckin' fine," he huffed, "Terry go with them."

Draco listened carefully now to the man standing six inches tall. The previous explosion would be the first of many isolated areas but they were few and far between. The cities and towns were lost, though to what he wasn't saying for sure. "An epidemic," the Muggles in the box were calling it. "An outbreak of yet to be known causes" being reported across the globe.

_**"… Officials say they are treating this as an international health hazard as well as a military concern…"**_

Maybe-

Limp bodies were dragged across sun soaked streets into sloppy piles. Out of focus, in the background, was a bonfire.

Maybe they were discussing an entirely different problem… surely the plights of Muggles couldn't touch his Scorpius. Surely… but he had seen it with his own eyes, not Dragon Pox or something curable, chasing him, pounding on the vehicle windows and thrashing in the fountain downstairs. Astoria. The house elves nothing but leather scraps and torn tea towels. The glimpse of collapsing structures spurned at random made him think of the manor. Irrational, yes, with its many wards and Muggle-repellant charms, but wonder if they failed and the Muggles saw it and blew it up?

Gone... all gone.

But it was already gone, wasn't it? He just hadn't slowed down enough to realize it.

It had been so much easier earlier with the running and the simple concept yet complicated act of surviving to allow much else. Standing here now, having it confirmed by insulting means was-

_**… "Next question."**_

_** "Are they living or are they dead?" **_

_** "We- don't know."…**_

Draco's lungs seized under an invisible steel clamp around his chest. Squeezing. His vision blurring. It took all of his diminishing strength to turn away. He couldn't- he couldn't see anymore. He couldn't hear anymore. His mind was bombarded with images of shining blue eyes, platinum hair, and a round baby face- that he wouldn't see anymore or hold or take care of-

Too-

Too many people around him-

Draco tore out of the store, heading in the vague direction of the washroom. No one could see him like this.

* * *

><p>Inside the girl's restroom, Angelina hissed as cotton material brushed the burning ache on her arm as the sleeve was rolled up for inspection under the fluorescent light.<p>

"Does it hurt much?" George asked in a low, gentle tone. Though he sounded calm, all his wife had to do to see how he truly felt was look at the hard lines, the white slit of his mouth, and the distressed eyes glaring down at the revealed crescent pattern of carmine teeth marks so intently as if he could erase it by sheer will alone.

"Not unbearably." She shrugged. Her breath hitched and tears blurred her vision as he Scourgified the area -the blood swept and loose flesh threads torn away- and healed the mark to a smooth cherry red on her dark skin.

"Better?"

She could still feel the clammy grip grinding the bones in her wrist and the blunt edges tearing into her forearm.

"You're lucky he didn't bite it clean off." George tried to joke. Ever since Fred, it was rare and more like a hit or miss. His weak grin fell once his wife lifted fear-filled eyes up to his. Without pause but mindful of her stomach, he pulled her to his chest. He held her close as she wept into his smoke-scented shirt, fingers tenderly working through the tangles in her ebony hair. "Sh sh shhhh, we're going to be alright.

"I promise you."

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

However long it took you to read this, it only takes a few seconds more to type a quick review, so please do!


	4. Brilliant

**IV. Fucking Brilliant**

_**… Military forces were dispatched only hours ago to contain overrun areas of infection, forming barricades and eliminating hostile individuals…**_

"Too right," Dudley grunted, slumped on the couch now and staring at the television set, unblinking and scarily reminiscent of Harry's childhood. He grinned smugly and used his wrinkled sleeve to wipe at his nose. "Britain always sorts its shite out."

Harry looked back and forth between him and where Malfoy ran off, inwardly frustrated. Though he was sure the three security guards had secured the floor, he didn't like anyone dashing off alone; it would be best if they all stuck together. At Malfoy's abrupt departure, Harry was reflexively ready to follow him; he even took a step in his direction, but then he saw a flash of the blond's ashen face and saw the agony, the pure devastation splashed there, and Harry held himself back.

Considering the last time he had chased the ex-Death Eater into the toilets, Harry reasoned it best to leave him be.

Reluctantly turning away, he did something he never imagined doing to any of the Dursleys: He stood in front of Dudley, arms crossed, and effectively blocked his pudgy cousin's view of the telly.

"So what's the plan?"

Instead of hearing an answer from Dudley's agitated frown, Piers snidely interjected, "The plan is for you to drink a tall of glass of shut the fuck up."

Harry only shot the tosser a glare before turning back to his cousin. "We need to act now. At the moment those things may not be inside, but it's only a matter of time before that changes-"

"Must be twenty more out there by now at least," Ron dutifully added.

"What're you gettin' at?" Piers' eyes narrowed. _Idiot_.

Dudley finally gave up on seeing the screen and focused on the conversation. "Look, I might not have any of that funny mag-" he struggled but eventually spat, "_Stuff_, but this is my mall and I don't need you bargin' in and takin' over."

Harry ignored the sausage finger pointed in his face and calmly nodded in reply to the other's words. Hopefully Ron would have silenced Piers by now so Harry could talk to his cousin uninterrupted. Harry knew he could very easily overwhelm Dudley to comply, but his ethics wouldn't allow that. "Hey, you don't have to convince me you're capable. You're the ones who blocked the escalators. All I was going to say was we should fortify the doors downstairs, Ron and I could set up some wards, and it would probably be smart to put a big sign on the roof; there's still a lot of planes in the air; might be smart to let them know we're in here."

"Well- what about _your _kind?" Dudley spat, squeezing his hands into fists.

Harry's mouth tightened at the edges. "… our means wouldn't be very effective for this."

* * *

><p>Terry fiddled with his pistol after having checked its chamber for the fifth time; still full, not a shot fired yet. He rested against the stretch of wall beside the door to the girls' loo. The couple in there had yet to come out. The somber redhead looked familiar; Terry wanted to say from Diagon but couldn't place where. For now at least he could relax (as much as to be expected) away from Dudley and Piers, acting like men possessed when blocking the escalators and locking the doors. He didn't know his rotund superior could move at any speed resembling fast.<p>

He felt his wand weighing down his sleeve and wondered if he were to conjure up some paper, if Harry Potter would sign it for him, maybe another and address it to his dad who very "conveniently" shared the same name as Terry. He just couldn't believe it: _The_ Harry Potter in the same building as him!

_I mean, what are the odds? _The Saviour of the Wizarding World in his shopping center.

This happy, star struck thought made it easier to avoid thinking on other things.

One of them stalking this way.

He jumped to attention: Uncrossing his legs -stumbling as they tangled with each other- and planting both feet firmly on the ground while he flattened his back against the wall. He might have been twelve when the war ended, but his parents had lived religiously by the Prophet and made sure to explain its informative articles to him in simplified terms and pointing out the accompanying pictures. And one of the topics they stressed to him was the remaining Death Eaters that slithered their way out of a life sentence in Azkaban. The Malfoys had dominated that particular area of press coverage; Terry was hardly about to forget them, with their distinctive physical traits, wealth, and the controversy surrounding them.

Terry's insides squirmed at the invisible presence of a lightening storm that crackled around Draco Malfoy.

Clothes ripped, covered in soot and stained with damp, carmine splatters. _He probably had killed some innocent! _White blond hair in disarray, its strands licked with traces of blood. Emotionless expression; busted lips working around gritted teeth. His eyes though… Terry lost all courage in the face of those icy pits emitting the heat of a Fiendfyre inferno and leaving the young security guard shivering in subdued terror.

The blond Death Eater bounded swiftly past into the Gents without a glance. His movements shoving open the door were jerky and almost desperate. A wave of prickling magic forced the door closed on his heels, and the lock slammed in the resounding silence with Terry's frantic pulse pattering under his skin.

Saucer-wide hazel eyes stared at the door for dragging moments. Malfoy was with Harry Potter, wasn't he? Like a prisoner? Terry cursed his poor marks in Defense. With all the shit going on, Malfoy couldn't **really** summon Dementors.

... could he?

* * *

><p>"What was that?"<p>

Harry was almost upon them when he heard George's exclamation. He and Angelina were crowding the doorway to the Girls', alarmed expressions on theirs and the young guard's faces. There was residual traces of micro bursting wild magic hanging in the air that raised the tiny hairs on the back of his neck in a static buzz.

"Did ickle Ron lose his temper?" George went on to say. Said Weasley flashed a two finger salute, though his blatant glares at Dudley and Piers suggested he could do without the presence of the sampling of the world's most distasteful Muggles.

Harry had a good hunch, and it was confirmed when the mousy guard -Harry didn't catch his name- pointed a shaky finger where the waves of discord emanated the most from -seeping around the cracks of the men's room door- and looked to Harry as the Super Auror the rest of their world assumed him to be. He wanted to go in there, if not to put the others at ease but to check on Malfoy. History held him back though: One of them might be without a wand and hopefully more mature, but Harry could never be sure about his childhood rival.

"Just leave him be," he cut in loudly over their musings about the ex-Slytherin and what should be done with him and his apparent emotional state. Ron was probably itching to humiliate Malfoy and throw him in a full-body bind. Harry firmly shook his head at their protests; even Dudley had something to say, declaring that poofter wasn't going to be left alone so he could "steal shit." Of course Ron was there with his, "But he's a slimy snake up to no good."

A disturbing strike of protectiveness struck Harry then, and his agitated slice at the air silenced them all. "I said leave it. There are more important things. Dudley and I discussed this." He glanced at the aforementioned, ensuring the unnecessary power struggles were avoided.

"Ron and I will go up on the roof to set wards around the perimeter; George, I'm sure you're not about to let Angelina out of your sight?" The redhead in question nodded, grasping the delicate hand in his tighter. "So you two will go up there with us, putting up signs to let others know we're in here. Dudley and Piers are to reinforce the doors downstairs, especially the glass ones. Right, so everyone's clear on-"

"What do you want me to do?" The young guard chirped, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a discomforting level of hero worship in his eyes.

"Uh… help Dudley. Sticking charms," he added quickly, remembering the young man was a wizard. Ignoring the fact his last instruction was received like a dog losing the wag to its tail after being denied a treat, he dismissed them all.

"Dudley, look…" Piers was hunched over the railing, fascinated. "Terry," he added belatedly. "Take a look at Ben. Hey Ben!"

There was no response, of course. The "Ben" he was in reference to was still thrashing about in the fountain. His skin a purplish blue.

"He's one a those 'twitchers' like on the telly," Piers continued with a giddy chuckle.

Without preamble, Dudley joined Piers' side, leveled his gun and shot "Ben" in the head. The water stilled to a babbling dribble. "Fuck the fucker," Dudley spat in disgust. "… I told him not to go down there," he muttered as he turned away from the scene and walked away. His friend scampered behind, talking excitedly about the brilliant shot.

The others, especially Harry, stood stunned for minutes after before moving slowly to their tasks. Harry supposed there was something to those video games Dudley had been obsessed with when they were teenagers.

Malfoy, for the moment at least, was but a distant worry.

* * *

><p>Finally they had gone.<p>

Rigid muscles eased into a more natural stance.

Long, pale fingers relaxed their fierce grip on the porcelain edges of the sink.

Once their muffled voices had drifted away and left him with only the wisps of his scant breathing, he looked up at his washed-out reflection in the mirror: Feverish grey eyes perused the smudges of soot smeared across his cheek, brow, and the underside of his pointed chin; the hard line of his mouth was almost lost in the backdrop of his sallow complexion, broken by the bleeding slit and sticky scarlet cascade below it. Shaking hands started to scrub at the mess, rolling the grime and turning the skin surrounding a faint pink.

Before their voices were heard and the fixtures stopped rattling, he had torn his shirt off. Opal buttons lay scattered around the knot of expensive fabric on the plain tile. Ripped, soiled, and essentially ruined. The first glimpse he had caught of himself, fingers were working furiously at his collar until he gave up and snatched two handfuls and yanked. Blood -what had to be Astoria's- turned his stomach and he had to have it off him. Unfortunately as the little bitch had the habit of passive-aggressively flipping him the bird, the once warm sopping stains had soaked through to his undershirt. He grudgingly kept it on, because if he kept up that trend he'd be standing in this horrendously lit washroom starkers.

Everything felt horrible against his skin. He could drown in a bath of volcanic temperatures, watching the flesh melt easily off his bones and burst to cleansing flame, and still not feel _clean_ in the remotest sense.

The throbbing in his chest still persisted, boiling and scalding the edges farther and farther in rolling waves. His throat burning, his vision cleared from saline blurs. But the muffled shout of _"What was that?" _locked his worsening state into a stasis; one where he had enough hold of himself to reel in the translucent coiling and snapping whips of his magic back under the trembling surface of his skin.

A hefty inhale and exhale. He was a Malfoy, and those people gathered outside (two of which were disgusting Muggles) didn't deserve the satisfaction of seeing any less; though regrettably they knew he was in here, just not the exact why. And he could work around that.

After what sounded like their menial tasks were dealt, he felt confident none of them would be foolish enough to disturb him. As he washed his hands with pink, fruity-smelling soap he was sure would dry out his skin, he focused inwardly to erect walls in his mind to block off the beginning of his day, to distance himself from it as though it all happened to someone else. The only decent lesson his Aunt Bellatrix had taught him; Back then he had always wondered -being the psychopath she was- what memories she wanted to separate from, but now Draco simply didn't care. He understood it didn't matter as long as they weren't _right there _taunting him. If he had his wand, he'd Obliviate himself, yet circumstances as they were…

Steadier now, having constructed the barriers to shelter his sanity, Draco hesitantly tore away from the light brown roll of paper and used it dry off, sneering as he did so. Several had to be used since at the first sign of moisture, the stiff, scratchy material deteriorated to soggy, torn pulps. _Stupid Muggles._

Then he carefully rearranged his hair into its tidy sweep. Patting it down -his face settling into its blank mask- a flash of mottled grey caused him pause. The Mark had faded drastically since the fall of the Dark Lord, but its connotations were just as heavy and damning today as it was back then. Make no mistake, he was under no illusions that Potter and his little gang had forgotten that (Golden Boy's bluff regarding him coming to mind), but it didn't mean he had to go flaunting the hideous thing. There was shame, of course, but it was also an obvious chink in the armor. Something would have to be done in covering up the warped tattoo on his forearm.

A wayward sleeve reached towards his once shiny dress shoe, and he scuffed its foggy tip kicking the offending fabric away. A wrinkled ball once worth forty galleons lay forgotten under the row of sinks. To stay, if he couldn't burn it. The distanced memories were enough; he never wanted to set eyes on the garment again.

* * *

><p>It took close to twenty minutes before everyone embarked on their assigned duties, most of which were spent arguing with Dudley and Piers over the paint supplies needed and how they better be paid for. Another stand-off of pistols and wands were ignited by Ron's ill-advised stinging hex at Piers' rear end that lasted for several long, tense minutes. Harry had pulled at his dark roots till his already messy hair appeared to be the victim of a concentrated cyclone. The lights had flickered and the air charged with static which seemed to garner everyone's attention. The frustrated expression and his ticking jaw made the others exceedingly agreeable by that point: The young guard rushed to help George and Angelina gather the paint, rollers, and spray cans; while Piers and Dudley stacked a pile of shelf boards and furniture on a flat-bed cart.<p>

Honestly, the war was simpler than this.

He and Ron alternated from store to store on the first floor setting wards, and from there they would be reinforced from the roof. Not a word was exchanged when the redhead exited the sports store offering a sympathetic expression, one which Harry dutifully ignored. He had shed his torn robes at first opportunity; breathing easier in his faded t-shirt and baggy denims. Ron might ask later, but he had no intention of discussing what he had to do with his bare hands. Traces of red grime still caked under his nails.

The three security guards seemed to be getting on well… well, as could be expected, having three of the five major entrances finished already. Piers flinchingly braced the boards in place while Dudley hammered away in puce-colored, silent fury. The former throwing a steady stream of glances filled with disbelief at the smallest of the trio following their progress with his wand out, casting sticking charms; the latter glared openly, crooked teeth bared in disgust and betrayal. Hopefully that animosity would be kept to a minimum. They all had enough problems as far as Harry was concerned: The unfamiliar faces moaning and banging against the glass and their hands clawing insanely to get through to the people with pulses on the other side.

The sun shone down on them as they eventually gathered on the roof. Their tasks completed. The breeze carried away the fumes of fresh paint: Giant, wet signs of **SOS-HELP!-ALIVE INSIDE** stretched across the heated concrete and hung in large banners over the sides of the building. George and Angelina had done a fantastic job, and Harry told them so. After the signal his rising temper had passed, the others felt it safe to approach with questions and a snide remark from Piers essentially asking, "Now what?"

Harry had no idea. He needed time to think. He hated to contemplate it, but what more was there to do besides wait?

Malfoy had stepped out here with them moments ago, dressed in a fresh set of clothes not deviating from his previous style but this time all in black. They weren't a tailored fit, but they hugged his lean frame disturbingly well. Harry tried to imagine the pureblood wandering a Muggle mall for a change of clothes and he couldn't, yet there was the evidence.

"Nice of you to help, Ferret," Ron sniped. A ripple of murmurs sounded in agreement. Everyone was sweating from the work and the sun bearing down on them, and Malfoy… Malfoy looked just as fashionable and well-kept as he usually did back in school, all fine hair and alabaster skin.

Sadly some things never changed, because back then as well as now, Harry couldn't take his eyes away from the blazing, black and white sight.

The blond didn't reply at all really. He simply sauntered up to the edge and peered down like it was the most casual thing in the world. Below, more haggard bodies were shambling forward and gathering in the shadow of the building. His split lips -Harry wished he could just heal them already- twisted in the faintest of sneers. His clenched fists safely buried in his trouser pockets.

A far off pop split the air behind them, loud enough to trick those in the know into believing -hoping- it was the sound of Apparation. On the other side of the roof, they saw nothing but the popping turned rapid and more lethal. A line of smaller stores stood far across the lot and down the connecting street and into town. Atop Andy's Armory was a minute twitch of movement Harry instantly zeroed in on. Even with Harry's magically-corrected sight, the only thing he could be sure about was the person crouching on the edge was a man and in his arms was what had to be a sniper rifle, judging by the scope.

"Says his name's Andy," said Dudley. A pair of binoculars dug circles into his chubby face as he directed them at the large sign the man held.

"Shocker, that is," Malfoy's muttered disdainfully off to the side.

"He's alone, too."

"Might as well be on the bloody moon," George commented, squinting.

The white board scribbled with his greeting across the way was lowered in the man's hands. Instead, a long arm pointed back towards them. "What's he pointing-" Then they all saw it: Coasting low through the air was a military chopper not more than two kilometers away. The reaction was instantaneous: Jumping, waving arms, shouting, even brandished wands spitting colorful sparks high up into the air.

"We're going to be okay!" Terry clapped his hands enthusiastically.

George, patting himself down for one of his Wildfire Whiz-Bangs ("For emergencies," he told Harry once and now he supposed that was smart of him), was grinning like a loon. "They can take you to a physician, Ange. Even if it is a Muggle one."

Despite their efforts, the chopper stayed on path, coming no closer but flying farther away.

"OI, YOU FUCKING BASTERDS! GET BACK HERE!" Piers bellowed, spit flying from his words.

Angelina hesitated to lower her wand drizzling red sparks. "Maybe they didn't see us?"

"Oh of course they saw us!" Ron growled. Face burning, he kicked at the corner of the "S" below their feet. "… fucking ignored us is what they did."

"So… what does that mean exactly?" She looked from her husband to Harry. The fear welling up in her dark eyes said she knew but desperately needed to hear otherwise. George's arm curled around her shoulders as she cradled her round stomach.

Harry pressed his mouth into a tighter line and looked away.

Light chuckles peppered the silence, then expanded into hard, cutting sardonic laughter. Malfoy was practically doubled over clutching at his sides. His white teeth were bared, the farthest thing from a smile. Eyes cold and narrowed. It hurt just to look at him. After a few more hiccups, he managed enough oxygen to gasp -his angrily flushed face wrenched into a snarl-

"Well isn't that just fucking _**brilliant**_?"

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Sorry this took awhile. RL is still an unfortunate priority. I hope this suffices, and I want to say a huge thank you for the reviews and alerts the last chapter garnered. They totally made things a lot easier and enjoyable. Thank you!


	5. Choke

**V. Choke**

They waited around on the roof until sunset. No other planes were sighted, only black plumes of smoke swirled up to the too blue sky across the land. A snatched dinner board from one of the restaurants of the mall gleaned no more information from the neighboring man, Andy. No one was in the mood to eat, not even Dudley who had kept quiet for the last several hours.

Instead the sleeping arrangements were seen to, exhausted as everyone was.

"I don't trust you freaky lot to not run around and destroy everything, so you're stayin' in here." Dudley glared at each of them -failing at intimidation- before snapping the cage down to effectively seal off the gaping entrance of the store from the rest of the mall.

Harry, irritated beyond compare but too drained to argue his cousin's idiotic logic, watched through metal slots as sausage-thick fingers fumbled with a lock and a crowded ring of keys. "Just like old times, eh Dudders?" he murmured petulantly, loud enough for only his cousin to hear.

In response the correct key was violently jammed into the lock and pulled out after a harsh twist. Dudley's face was flushed a volcanic shade reminiscent to Uncle Vernon. Harry smirked and lazily waved his hand, the lock clicked open inside the other's chubby fist. With a strangled squeak, Dudley dropped the lock as if tainted and lumbered away, Piers and a reluctant Terry right behind him.

That display of wandless magic was probably unnecessary, but something inside Harry had bristled at the sight of a mini-Vernon _locking him in_, and he couldn't let it happen so easily again.

With a sigh, he turned his back to the dimly-lit corridor and faced the glowing wand tips of his friends. George and Angelina were settling down on a full-sized bed; Ron was stretched out on a twin, his scarlet robe discarded and hanging messily off a corner of the mattress; Malfoy was perched on the edge of a fully made king-size four poster, blank-faced yet at the same time looking distinctly uncomfortable with the Muggle-used accommodations. Without a light of his own and only the weak illumination of others to reach his far corner, he appeared to be thinking hard on something. Harry wondered if he realized he was staring at him while doing so.

"Are we taking shifts?" Ron's sleepy voice startled him from the pull of those pale eyes. Grateful for that, Harry thought about the question with a small frown.

"… no, we should be fine tonight. I'll be up for a little longer anyways, so if you want to get some rest, go ahead."

"Thanks, mate," his friend slurred, eyes closed and mouth already going slack.

Harry looked back at the blond only to find his back was to him and rigidly laying on his side facing the wall. Disturbed by himself for being disappointed there wasn't much of a chance tonight for talking with the man, Harry plopped down on a futon facing out to the rest of the wide store. One half, bedding and supplies, the other two-wall models of bathroom designs and fixtures. Though he had told Ron otherwise, he sat back and kept a look out. _Constant Vigilance _and all that…

* * *

><p>Back in the electronics store, the lights were still on in a fierce fluorescent burn. If he wasn't used to the low-budget illumination day in and day out, he would have a monster migraine; but with the day he'd been having, exceptions could be made.<p>

Dudley's round cheek wrenched to the side in a scowl at the dumb sods behind him talking none too quietly while he remained planted in front of the large plasma television set. He struggled to listen to the words of the news anchor, yet Piers' questions and Terry's snotty answers (the first time the boy seemed to know what he was talking about) kept tugging his attention away. They were talking about the "M" word and its freak attachments. His father would have taken action in a snap; Dudley could too, he had a gun even if he would just brandish it. He could still beat the crap out of them. But as he had come to find in the past, what good were fists when pitted against those weird stick things?

He wanted his parents here.

"So these drinks-"

"Potions."

His teeth gritted and he tried to focus on the special report.

_**… "They seem to need to feed on warm flesh." The squat, bald man took a hasty sip from his water. "Some basic motor skills remain intact, but they don't possess much of any reasoning power."**_

_** "And how does this spread?"**_

_** "Whoever they kill and rises from the ground afterward."…**_

Dudley wanted to shout at the screen, demand to tell him something he didn't already know.

"These 'potions' could do anything ya wanted?"

"Just about. Me, I'm shite at brewing, but I could whip up a decent Hangover Potion!"

"Blimey, I coulda used some of that stuff this morning." Piers chuckled which sent another flare of irritation to itch behind Dudley's ear. "… hey, could these 'potion' things get you girls?"

"Like into their knickers? … yeah, a course, but they're illegal."

"Aw, can you make me some? I was supposed to go on a date tonight with that bird that works at the coffee stand."

"The fit one?"

"Nah, her fat friend, but it's to get to the fit one. You know, show her I'm sensitive and all that rot."

"Ace," Terry snickered.

Dudley threw down the cap on his head and spun around on the couch. "Don't you guys get it? Everybody's dead. Your mum, your dad, that fat bird at the coffee stand and her fit friend- **Dead**," he spat in all one heaving breath. His face puce and wanting to beat everything and everyone in sight into a bloody pulp, he plopped back into his seat.

Terry cowered under the harsh glare and buried himself into the makeshift bed of blankets and pillows and forced sleep to come. Piers, having the giddiness of the previous conversation drained from him, grumbled, "Yeah? Well that sucks too…" He laid back on his own pallet and stared with a slight frown at the ceiling.

Calmed down but not by much, Dudley stabbed a pudgy thumb down on the remote, changing the channel, and whipped it at the other end of the couch. On screen was simply a man in a nice suit, sitting behind a desk in some study; a restrained fury etched into his weathered face that Dudley could sympathize with at the moment. But when the man spoke it was in a calm baritone, but his words hadn't lost their urgency and flare of smugness. Dudley surmised this bloke must be a preacher or something, judging by the first words out of his mouth.

_**… "Hell is over flowing, and Satan is sending his Dead to Us. Why? Because… you have Sex out of wedlock, you Kill unborn children, you have Men on Men relations, Same-Sex marriages," **_disgust hissed through his words. Dudley could understand that. His parents felt the same way. _**"… and how do you think God will protect you? Well, friends… now we know…**_

_** When there is no more room in Hell, the Dead will walk the Earth." …**_

Dudley figured the preacher forgot those magic freaks in that recipe of how the world went entirely to shit.

* * *

><p>After awhile of studying the shadowed surroundings and casting periodic tempus charms (the latest being 11:34 PM), the sounds of rustling had calmed into the cadence of sleep; Ron's heavy snores drowned out everyone else and demolished the silence, which Harry was more than grateful for. The chaos of the day suddenly dropping off to absolute quiet like it did on the roof was not a drastic shift he cared to ever revisit.<p>

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was at home in his flat and his best mate had decided to crash on his couch after a night of one too many pints; everything was safe and peaceful and normal, if not exactly quiet; and in the morning they'd share breakfast and some Hangover Potion before he prepared for work while Ron rushed home to do much of the same. The illusion was almost believable.

_Almost_ but then a frustrated growl not his own forced his weary eyes open -the darkness prominent due to the _noxed_ lights- and scanned in brief, blind panic before reflex kicked in.

"_**Lumos**_." The white glow stung his eyes. He cupped his hand over it to lessen its effect -blinking rapidly- to spy Malfoy sitting up, squinting and scowling at him. "What?"

Instead of justifying that reasonable question with an answer, Malfoy shot a hateful glare at Ron. Harry had to admit it was quite a grating sound if one weren't used to it. He figured the worst Malfoy was used to was his wife's dainty breathing at night within the deafening isolation of his grand manor. The thought sort of irked him, but he pushed it aside into the group of thoughts or feelings considered flukes. It had been a long day, and to be honest the years of intense Auror training didn't prepare him for all that had happened. Waiting for the other man's scathing insult about Ron -perhaps going as far to suffocate him with the white knuckle grasp Malfoy had on the pillow in his hands- Harry decided to just cast a silencing charm on his friend. No need for the prat to throw another odd tantrum and wake everyone else up. With a flicker of relief and an enigmatic glance in Harry's direction, Malfoy laid back down (despite Harry's assumptions of slumber) and continued to stare at the wall.

Harry watched the blond's stiff spine for lingering moments before extinguishing the light. He slumped back into the cushions, too tired to formulate complex thoughts on his childhood rival.

Hopefully, things might start making sense in the morning.

* * *

><p>Hours later all three security guards were sleeping soundly when the lights went on and Muzak poured from the inconspicuous speakers throughout the mall. Piers sprung up from his tangle of blankets in only his shirt and boxer shorts with his gun drawn and a bleary, deer-in-headlights expression on his face.<p>

Rubbing his neck with a tired groan, Dudley sat up from the couch. "It's jus' the timer," he yawned. "Terry, go turn it off."

His scowl lessened by rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Terry glared between the two other men. "Why should I have to go do it?" A crowded rung of keys smacked him in the chest.

"Because I'm your boss."

"And shit rolls down hill." Piers, having relaxed, pulled on his cap with a smug grin.

"Put on some tea too."

Terry stomped off with a sour expression. He squeezed the wand stashed in his sleeve only when Piers called out to him to add plenty of milk and sugar to his cup. Too immersed in the small amount of hexes in his repertoire -he was a Hufflepuff for Merlin's sake- to use against the two pieces of troll dung he had to put up with at the top of that hill, he missed the metallic rustling going on further down the hall.

"Hey! Uh… Terry!" He whirled around, feeling a bit caught out, only to have his lungs knotted in his throat. Harry Potter was jogging up to him. He looked around him just to be sure. The Chosen One could only be looking for Dudley since they seemed to know each other. It didn't matter; Terry was the one he was going to talk to for now, and the seventeen year-old couldn't be more excited.

"Hi there, it is Terry, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter, what can I do for you?" He smiled eagerly

Harry grinned uncomfortably. "Just Harry, yeah? Look, do you know anywhere we could clean up? Cleaning charms can only do so much-"

"Yes! I mean, yeah, of course. We have a locker room with showers. I could take you all there. First though I have to check the monitors and turn off the timer. Is- Is that okay, Mr. Po- Harry?"

"That's more than okay, thanks." Harry nodded to the young man before returning to the mattress store. The others were stirring. Ron was stretching and popping his back with a wide yawn. Harry had taken over both shifts just so his friend could sleep and managed only two hours for himself, which had been an exercise in futility. Suffering a small headache but his muscles rested from sitting for so long, he flashed them all a bright smile and wished them a cheerful morning. The half-hearted murmurs in return told exactly what kind of morning it was.

He didn't know why but his eyes were immediately drawn to the blond in the back corner whom had barely moved at all. Worry bombarded Harry's thoughts then. Malfoy hadn't spoken a word since his laughing fit on the roof yesterday. For hours he had stood on the opposite side of the concrete expanse from them, seemingly deep in thought or utterly lost in it; funny how those two often appeared the same. Malfoy stood there until the sunset had painted his fair coloring a burnt orange. Occasionally his fingers would absently snap, conjuring a small flame; he'd cup it for a moment -gazing down- then tip his palm and watch it plummet to the growing ring of bodies below. Harry had snapped at him to stop it once Ron had questioned him why he was staring at the git, not wanting to admit he had been hypnotized by the rhythmic motions. In reply, Malfoy had raised a sharp, mocking eyebrow, created a fire the size of a tennis ball and carelessly tossed it over the edge. A yowl had sounded below and whatever he saw connected to the puff of smoke that had subsequently risen had provoked a weak smirk from the blond.

Harry was impressed that his old rival could practice wandless magic. Although coming a close second to Hermione each school year in marks, it shouldn't really shock him. It'd be something he could ask about to jump start a conversation. Malfoy could loosen up in doing what he did best, bragging, and eventually Harry could find out why the normally pristine pureblood had been covered in sticky red earlier that day. Maybe his perfect wife had…? Harry mentally smacked himself in disgust. That thought shouldn't have been as hopeful, considering Malfoy newly single.

_For shame, Potter, for shame. _The voice of Morality in his head also did not need to sound like Snape either.

Forcing his full focus out of his head entirely and about to start the much needed conversation -the one where they were going to have to decide where to go from here- he was interrupted by slapping rubber soles. Terry darted past, chanting a steady breathless chant of, "Shit-shit-shit." After a moment, he was joined by an also equally alarmed Dudley and Piers. The trio slammed through the door leading upstairs to the roof. With a silent, shared look, Harry and the Weasleys weren't far behind.

* * *

><p>Draco flopped onto his back once the store had gone quiet and devoid of Weasels. A pressure in his frontal lobes had bloomed throughout the long night; probably from lack of sleep and the Weasel's unholy snoring. One would think six years of being subjected to the painful duo of Crabbe and Goyle would help him ignore it, but years of pin drop silence in the manor seemed to have caused that tolerance to crumble significantly. His eyes felt dry and the lids that hung over them were exceptionally heavy. If he had gotten even a hour's worth of rest, he would have the better mind to sleep now that he had peace at his disposal. Unfortunately the two seemed inter-connected and he was without the key sleep, so -curiosity and the hazy belief Potter was somehow safety embodied- he slowly dragged himself out of the store.<p>

He'd regret it once the sunlight stung his eyes and shouting harassed his tender eardrums. That fat muggle was yelling again.

"See I knew this shit was gonna happen! First letting you freaks in here and now that ruddy truck shows up-"

Potter jabbed a finger in the distance. "We have to help them regardless. They'll die out there if we don't." Draco's gaze followed the direction the brunet was pointing to see an overly large, Muggle automobile tearing through the lot on screeching tires. It's snub nose bowled over the creatures stupidly charging it head-on, and the long box attached to it bounced ominously as mutilated hands clawed against its white walls.

"And why should I care if they die?"

"Dudley, don't be a prick. We're talking about human beings, just like you and me."

"It's not like there isn't room," the Weasley brother added.

"No, this is my mall! How do we know they're not fucked up like everyone else out there?"

"Well, for one they're driving a truck," Potter started in a pragmatic tone until his ears perked up at the metallic pops that spattered the air. "Oh and they're firing guns."

"We start letting more people in here and we might let the wrong sort in, and then I'm dead and you know what? I don't wanna die."

"Excuse me, the _**wrong**__ sort_?" At the hint of angered disbelief in Potter's voice, Draco's mouth absently curved into a small smile. He recognized saying those select words once upon a time to a scruffy, bespectacled boy who he only wanted to be his friend. He wondered if Potter was thinking the same thing and how he snidely replied, _"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thank you."_

Needless to say Draco's smile uncurled into a flat expression.

The muggle titled, Dudley (_Dudley? _What a supremely ridiculous name. Were his parents mentally deficient? Wait, why was Draco even asking? They were Muggles, of course they were!) threw his chunky arms in the air. "Nobody here's sick and I plan on keeping it that way. No! Me, I'm not gonna get sick." He whipped out his "gun" and pointed it at Potter's chest. "If you want to argue with me then you can argue with this!"

It was all very amusing, in Draco's opinion. Once again -what it always came down to was Blood Purity, just in a different perspective.

* * *

><p>Harry stepped swiftly backwards from the barrel that would have stabbed a bruise into his chest, a thunderous expression on his face. He couldn't believe his cousin had pulled a gun on him, but in many ways he could. It was only a matter of whether or not Dudley would seriously use it now that worried him.<p>

Swinging his weapon from one person to the other, Dudley forced a defined line between Harry's crew and his own. "Piers, are you with me?" His tall friend dashed to his side and clumsily withdrew his own firearm. "Terry, are you with us or die with those freaks?"

"Dudley, man, you can't just point your gun at Harry Potter!" Terry squeaked, horrified with his Muggle superior's actions. "He's- he's the Boy Who Lived, top Auror- He killed You Know Who!" the teenage boy whispered furiously.

"No, I don't know who," Dudley spat, "And I don't care. Siding with your lot then?"

Terry looked at the purple-faced man's near squeeze on the trigger as its aim slid over him. "I-I'm not killing anyone."

"It's self-defense," Dudley snapped with a crazed glint in his eyes. "I'll kill each and everyone of you to stay alive, do you hear me?"

More gunshots could be heard as the truck circled the building. The number of strangers outside seemed to have tripled since yesterday and throwing themselves at the vehicle didn't buy the people inside it a whole lot of time. Harry stared hard at Dudley, wondering if promises of a sweet cake would settle his tantrum like it seemed to when his aunt did it in the past, but he realized it probably wouldn't be as simple as a hunk of sugar and a simpering smile for Duddikins.

"Please, don't do this."

"Hey Dud, maybe we'll kill them and keep the pregnant bitch," Piers snickered, eagerly darting his eyes between Dudley and Angelina. Then they focused on Malfoy. "…and the blond faggot 'cause he's just so pretty."

Harry had been doing so _well_ keeping a cool head, but hearing that, something audible inside him snapped. With an outraged snarl, he tackled Piers just as his fist smashed against an ugly leer. Even after crumpling to the ground with a groan, Harry continued to hit him until every withdrawal contained warm blood dripping from his knuckles. Auror training involved physical as well as magical combat, and Harry had passed through both with flying colours. Finally he only let up when Angelina shrieked for him to stop, and he belatedly remembered that she too had been insulted.

"Is there a holding cell here?" Ron spoke up. Harry rose from his spot crushing Piers' chest to see the redhead had wrangled Dudley's gun from him and was now pointing it at the seething man.

With his own pistol aimed in determination, Terry nodded and nudged Piers with the tip of his shoe, but the wimp merely laid there groaning. His face a disfigured, carmine mess.

"Take me there." Ron poked Dudley hard in the shoulder to get him walking while Terry levitated the motionless Piers ahead of them.

"Fucking traitor," Dudley spat at his co-worker. He scowled when Ron pushed him again to keep moving. "You'll murder us all," he directed at Harry.

Harry watched after with a tight expression. "Funny, you were planning on doing the same not too long ago."

Ron brushed past. "Hope you have a good plan, mate."

Yeah, Harry hoped so too, as he turned his head and spotted the truck. Luckily, the fire escape attached to an adjacent branch to the mall caught his eye. Then the rest came together rather easily. The execution, that was going to be… tricky.

He was quick to adjust the wards to allow anyone with a pulse pass through, which was something he never had to do before and it was odd doing so now despite the circumstances. Angelina, though she shouldn't be doing much in her condition, wasn't about to leave her husband's side so she and George hurried over to the fire escape and shot sparks to gain the driver's attention. There was no way in hell the front doors were coming open. Harry and Ron would help with the escort downstairs. Terry was still with Dudley and Piers, probably seeing to the latter's busted face, though Harry didn't think the fucker deserved to have it healed. All who was left was-

* * *

><p>"Malfoy." Said blond turned to look at Potter with a bored sigh but didn't meet him in the eye. They settled several inches next to his atrocious hairstyle.<p>

"Just because I didn't side with the crazy, fat one doesn't mean I'm going to fall over myself to help you. I couldn't really care less about the next sorry lot the Golden Boy wants to play Hero for. Risking my neck for some dirty muggles is not on my agenda for today." His aristocratic nose wrinkled in disgust. "But I will tell you that at the top of my list is going back to bed. Now if you'll kindly shove off." He tried to move around the solid wall of muscle Potter seemed to acquire over the years but was only met with an annoying step-for-step resistance. After four aborted tries, he stopped , realizing how ridiculous he must look. "Potter, move."

"No, the way I see it, Malfoy, is you can either help willingly or I'll call in on one of the life debts you owe me, so no matter what you're going to say yes in the next ten seconds. Your choice which." The bastard crossed his arms over his broad chest with a none-too-subtle smirk. A _smirk_! Gryffindors, especially Potter for that matter, shouldn't know how to smirk.

_One of the life debts? There was more than one? _Draco wasn't sure about that, but he knew for sure about the one. But he had saved Potter's life too! Twice: One for the Manor and another in the Room of Requirement when Crabbe and Goyle were so keen to kill the scarred prat, and Draco wasn't even sure if that one counted. But that should still cancel whatever else out, but there was still the one. Life debts were serious business, and there was no way Draco was going to be indebted to Potter for the rest of his life.

_ However long that is_, the cynical thought hung in his mind.

_ Stupid Vince, should've been a squib, then I wouldn't be dealing with this._

"Tick-tock, tick-tock."

Inflamed with the smugness rolling off Potter in waves, he quickly asked in an angry whisper, "What would me 'helping' entail exactly?" He wouldn't be a proper Slytherin if he didn't demand the full description of all he had to do.

Regardless Potter's smile could only be called victorious. "Cover fire," he said simply. Draco was too distracted with that bright show of teeth and that shadowed hint of a dimple to notice what was being offered to him until the Weasel broke in with incredulous outrage. Draco didn't think the ginger knew any other response.

"What are you doing, Harry? You can't give him that!"

Offered in palm of his old rival was the oh so famous holly wand.

"Shut it, Ron. Malfoy, since you're apparently pants at using a gun…" His eye contact dipped down to the scab splitting the smooth pink of Draco's bottom lip; emerald irises flared when a tongue peeked out and absently licked at the injury. Potter blinked, flushing a deep crimson, before continuing on with a minute shake of his head. "All you have to do is stand up here and make sure none of those things get close to us."

Trying to act as if the wand being offered to him was a nasty chore, he failed and all but snatched it out of the grinning auror's hand. The smooth wood radiated a cozy warmth and an almost rightness tingled up his arm. Who knew he and Potter had such compatible magic? It wasn't the perfect fit his own wand possessed, but it was wonderful to have a wand again regardless. He didn't feel so helpless for the moment.

Draco suppressed the grin that was dying to erupt onto his face. Instead he sniffed and waved an imperious hand. "Consider this the **one** life debt."

"He's gonna shoot dark hexes at us," the red head hissed into Potter's ear.

"Perish the thought, Weasel." Draco flashed a white, vicious smile. "Just don't get in my way."

* * *

><p>Ron was still grumbling about that "Evil Slytherin" by the time they reached the corresponding door to the fire escape above outside. Harry supposed his friend wasn't too far off the mark. Malfoy did look absolutely sinful, armed with a wand twirling in his long, nimble fingers and a wicked smile alighting the razor edges to his face.<p>

* * *

><p>Outside brakes screeched as the truck swung around; its caboose tilted dangerously to one side and rode on that side's wheels for three heart-stopping seconds before slamming back onto the pavement on an even kilt. With the two figures on the roof kept in frame of the side mirror, the truck backed up steadily. A snarling hipster's head left a rosy stain on the bumper's edge; it's bones snapped under the tires in crackling succession.<p>

* * *

><p>"How will we know?" Ron asked, standing beside the steel door.<p>

The wall to the left of them shook as dust rained down.

Harry nodded, cocking the pistol in his hand. "I'll take that as the signal. On the count of three: One, two… three!" They both lunged forward, his hand yanking on the handle only to slam into the unyielding slab of metal. Ron frowned briefly before rolling his eyes and reaching out to undo the lock.

"Honestly," He exclaimed, sounding scarily like Hermione. They both shared a sad grin before foregoing the count and opting for charging outside.

Thankfully the corner was shaded so no precious seconds were wasted blinking the sun out their eyes. Harry's first bullet fired on impulse was embedded into the skull of a ghostly white, teenage girl who crumpled immediately. Bile burned in the back of his throat at the sight. Both aurors ran forward, taking down the scarce few that were able to keep up with the truck, and checked the cab to find it empty. Harry turned his eyes up to the top of the truck to see the back of an old woman hitching up the ladder and a haggard man anxiously helping her.

"_**Sectumsempra**_!" He whipped around at the shouted hex to watch a gangly man with glazed eyes standing unsteadily. A thin red line formed on the left side of its neck and bled through a white beater to wrap around the corpse's opposite hip. With a rattled moan, the top half slipped off its legs and fell beside its twitching limbs with a wet squelch. The head still lolled on its severed neck, blinking and confused. Harry looked to see how the blond was fairing, having been painfully familiar with Snape's curse, but he was dispatching another poor soul in much the same manner with such quiet intensity Harry had to simply stand there and watch for a moment.

"Harry, help me over here!" Ron had finagled the back doors open and was having trouble climbing in while bodies tried to squirm under from the other side. Harry sprinted over and shot three perfect head shots. Unfortunately one got close enough that he had to fend them off with a desperate grab at the collar and jam the gun's barrel under the soft flesh of its jaw.

Bang. He didn't have the courage to watch.

By then his partner was inside and carrying a large, weightless-charmed body out. Harry didn't spare time for details when the go ahead inside was called out and he had to make sure a pathway was cleared. Apparently Malfoy was the best man for the job, being quick with a wand, having accurate aim, and wasn't adverse to slashing people in half. A gruesome scene met Harry's eyes of split corpses and slippery organs. They all kept moving with mindless intent. Since the war, Harry was sure he'd never see something so horrific again, but life had a clever way of proving him wrong. He kept his focus sternly on holding the door open for Ron and the overweight woman in his arms.

From above an unfamiliar voice shouted there was no one left. Harry wondered just how many people had been riding in the back. Ron was panting by the time he came close enough what with having his attention so divided between keeping the woman up and staying alert for threats. Unfortunately it wasn't enough.

"Ron, move!" Harry scrambled to help his friend, the angle all wrong for a clear shot.

"_**Reducto**_!" rang out in panic. Then Harry discovered the Reductor curse was not something that should ever be cast on a human being. Heavy vapors of crimson hung frozen in the air for a brief moment before coating Ron's entire backside. Ignoring the horror splashed across his friend's face, Harry choked down the repulsion boiling in the back of his throat. They hurried inside to the sounds of Malfoy's dark cackling.

* * *

><p>Draco was choking on his laughter by the time the door below slammed shut. The wand in his hand slick with sweat from his white-knuckle grip slowly lowered to his side. If he focused on the look on the Weasel's dumb face, it was okay to have the urge to bark out his amusement like he felt driven to. All red-faced, leaking eyes, and stomach-cramping coughing fits.<p>

_Just don't look down and see what you did._

"Draco?"

His mouth snapped shut when he realized the sounds being pulled from his lungs were the farthest things from laughter, and looked in the direction where his name came from. He didn't get much of a chance to see anything besides a glimpse of dark brown hair before arms flung themselves around his neck and a small body knocked the wind out of him. Over one bony shoulder, he saw a tall, dark man in a well-cut navy suit striding purposefully towards them.

"Blaise?" He sputtered in shock when that familiar face infused with boredom came closer, only the cold, almond eyes were filled with relief. Draco craned his neck to get a look at the babbling body trying to press itself as close as possible to his chest. "Pansy?"

"Oh Draco, I can't believe you're here!" Yep, he would know that absolutely shrill voice anywhere, but he was too grateful to see a friendly face he couldn't help but smile. Not succeeding in shrugging out of her grip on him, she rambled on in too many words about how her and Blaise had come to be there. Draco, shamefully used to conversation where annunciation was involved, shot a pleading look at Blaise.

"Returning from a club in Amsterdam; got trapped in one of the apparation jumps; chaos; took refuge in some Muggle church; tagged along with muggles; and here we are." His smooth baritone had wavered between some pauses. Draco didn't need to hear the details his friend was so reluctant to give; it's not as if he were about to divulge the same if asked of him.

"Dray, our magic barely works!" Pansy pulled back with panicked blue eyes. The blond allowed the detested nickname, seeing the tenuous control the young witch had. Malfunctioning magic was a pureblood's own personal nightmare and with that on top of those things out there -he took in Pansy's ripped dress- was a worst case scenario no one would think to take into account.

"Hexes are absolutely exhausting! Everything else just gets ab-absorbed. They just keep moving! They chased me and Blaise- my shoes! My shoes are **ruined**!" Tear tracks cut through the fine layer of grime on her cheeks and caused her mascara to run. Draco surprised himself by having enough heart to not tell her she looked like shit which would mortify her. "Imagine being stuck in the back of that _thing_-" She pointed a chipped, red nail towards the ledge where the truck sat abandoned. "-being thrown about- trapped in there and touching _Muggles_," she spat as if it the most detestable act anyone should never endure, and in most minds of Purebloods it was. Draco gave her quaking shoulders a sympathetic squeeze.

Blaise opened his mouth to comment but eased it shut when approaching footsteps scraped across the cement. Weasley's brother poked his head in. "Why don't we take this all inside and keep the talk of certain things out of ignorant ears, yeah?"

Draco's gaze went down the line of strangers, muggles the lot of them if Pansy's disgust was to be believed. Blaise's derisive snort propelled his own blatant sneer. "The Statute's pretty much shot to hell now, isn't it, Weasley? So why don't you and your Muggle strays run along and leave the adults to talk, _yeah_?"

Weasley pointed out the door to everyone, and the Muggles shuffled over with the promise of food and water. Draco thought he won, tired as he was after his rapid fire assault of dark hexes, but then the redhead leaned in close, forcing Pansy to shift away. "Enough of that," he started in a low tone. "You haven't been the annoying git you were back in school. You think about yesterday and ask yourself just who was the stray then."

The words or even their delivery weren't particularly cruel, but they were just as effective. He didn't want to think about yesterday, about who was who and who was dead. The shields erected in his mind were tenuous at best. His sneer folded itself into a terse line. The man didn't even stick around to see how well his words had hit their mark. The back of Draco's eyes burned.

"Draco, yuck, how did you end up with a _Weasley_?" Pansy's magically sculpted face twisted in utter revulsion. "Don't tell me there's more." She jumped and whipped around to glare at Blaise for the sharp jab in the side. Draco could almost hear the silent conversation through their significant looks, Blaise having already understood and urging the self-involved female to think. He knew the moment her fear-soaked brain grasped onto something when her tarantula blue eyes widened and her mouth fell open in a gasp. "How-how could you be here? You have house arrest. You'd be safe there. Where's Scor-"

When Draco calmly turned his face away -squinting when there was no sun to blind him- she choked back her words and raised a shaking hand to her gaping, faded red lips. Pansy wasn't the smartest nor the most compassionate witch of her generation, but she had enough of each to apply it where it counted. As moisture swelled at the edge of her vision, a delicate hand curled into his loose fist and Blaise's larger one hooked onto his shoulder and gently squeezed. The blond struggled to keep from blinking or otherwise the tears would spill over and he'd officially be crying. He knew he could cry in front of them, they'd done the same to him before the war when they didn't know what to do about their wayward parents, but he was afraid starting meant never stopping.

The trio of old friends stood outside for awhile longer, silently ignoring the groans and shuffling occurring below. When Draco stepped away from their hold, eyes suspiciously blank, they filed inside with nothing more said between them.

After all, there were no words.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Hey all, thanks for all the fantastic reviews. They really help ease my worrying and most definitely brighten my day. This story won't be abandoned despite the erratic update schedule. RL has upped the momentum with my big sis' wedding being a month away, and I'm MOH helping out with the million and one things left to do, so please be patient with me. Hopefully this chapter is kinda sorta enjoyable. Maybe? Okay, shutting up now.


	6. The Bites

**VI. The Bites**

Harry hardly noticed when the three Slytherins joined the scattered group, too concerned with tending to wounds the Muggle way. Being already tired, hungry, and the mid-morning sun shining through the high ceiling windows, he didn't believe he had the patience for explaining all the wonders of Magic if he were to flick his wrist and the cut before him would stitch itself together.

A lower level store consisting of low-priced but high end furniture had been hijacked. He had just finished wrapping an older man's ankle and left it propped on an ottoman.

"Thank ya." Tucker, his newly cured patient, tipped his greasy trucker hat and flashed a yellow, crooked grin. Harry offered his own, much straighter and whiter, version in return before moving on to the next.

"Harry!" Terry called from the other side of the store. In long, sure strides he was following the worried call to the bedside of the large, sick woman Ron had carried in. "She's getting worse."

It was true. While before even though she was passed out, her skin hadn't been quite so pale and riddled with dark purple veins just under the waxy surface. Her ratted, mouse brown hair was slimy with perspiration as pitiful groans spilled from colorless lips. Harry wasn't a medical expert by any means, only having the most basic knowledge of healing, but he knew it was strange when there was an obvious infection yet no fever. After casting surreptitious scans had revealed nothing, Harry was at a total loss.

After carefully laying her arm littered with severe abrasions back down, he decided to continue where his help mattered until he had an idea of what to be done. "Terry, er, please stay with her. Tell me if anything changes." He didn't wait for the young man's jerky nod before heading over to the father and his teenage daughter huddled on a love seat, chatting with Angelina as she treated the crusting teeth marks forming an uneven ring from the top of the older man's hand and around to his palm.

"Does it hurt much?" asked Harry, pointing at the hand cradled to the older man's chest.

"Eh, it's nothing I can't handle," the man, Frank, answered with a tremulous grin. Sweat slicking his brow.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes, but seriously I'm fine. As long as Nicole here's okay, I will be." Harry's mouth quirked sadly at the girl that looked no older than sixteen burrowing into her father's side. He quickly carried on before the sight could depress him with past hurts.

"Everyone," he announced gaining mostly the others' attention, "We have plenty of food and water, so we'll get to those soon… Hel- help should be on the way." The words projected awkwardly from his mouth. To be honest, he had no idea what the food situation was like, having not eaten since a late breakfast yesterday and assuming the food court was well-stocked. He'd learned in the past that sometimes people needed to be kept calm over knowing the truth. The "Help" was more of a gesture of placation if anything. He just didn't know. Yesterday's coptor incident didn't necessarily bolster his confidence.

A dry scoff interrupted his contemplation, and he looked down to a startling sight: Blaise Zabini was lounging on a bench with a mocking expression. "And where did you hear that? Merlin whispering into the Chosen One's ear again?" His smirk, as irritating as it was in Harry's state of exhaustion, was a weak echo of Malfoy's. Harry looked around to see where the blond was. At the front of the store near a prop fireplace was Malfoy's rigid profile and some small, attractive brunette talking with- or at him, more like. She looked drastically upset while her companion looked decidedly blank.

"Zabini," Harry started in a distracted voice, forcing his eyes away from the pair and reining in thoughts going in a dozen different directions. "How are you even here?"

The darker man took an unhurried swig from the water bottle in his hand before casting a wary, over-the-shoulder glance in Malfoy and the woman's direction. "Got stranded in some town, I don't know the name, with these muggles. What they were using seemed effective so we stuck with them."

"We who?"

"Pansy and myself." He tipped his head in the direction of the young woman. It clicked then: Parkinson, but she didn't look at all the way she was in school. _Malfoy's pug-faced ex-girlfriend has obviously invested in some cosmetic reconstruction charms_, Harry supplied blithely.

"And she picked you all up?" He motioned at the tough-looking woman standing a few feet away. With her practical clothing, salt 'n pepper hair, and frown lines etched deeply into her weathered face, she could pass for Millicent Bulstrode's grandmother. The shotgun dangling at her side only sealed it as someone Harry wouldn't want to tick off.

"The bald gentleman with her kept talking into this box all night until someone answered. Couple hours later she showed up… well, if you could call that thing a _she_."

"Who's rig is that?" Ron came up on Harry's side, newly cleaned with a fresh change of off-the-rack clothes. The women had screamed upon sight of him covered in gore and appearing unnaturally strong carrying a woman who had three stone over him at the least. As soon as he dropped off the woman at her current spot and cancelled the weightless charm, he had rushed off to the wash room, the whole time grumbling about how that "Little ferret is so dead."

Before Harry could point out Millicent Bulstrode fifty years into the future, she was stepping forward, exclaiming it was hers.

"Mind if I borrow it?"

"I'm not using it." She shrugged.

"Keys?"

"They're in the cab."

Harry latched onto his friend's arm just before he moved away. He looked at Ron, completely gobsmacked. "What are you doing?"

"You know yesterday Mione was with mum at the Burrow."

"Yes, but you can't just up and leave now. Ron, you don't even know how to drive."

"So? How hard could it be?"

"Let's say if you do figure out how: 1) You don't know how to get there the Muggle way; and 2) There's probably no way that truck will make it to Ottery St. Catchpole."

"I'd forget that, Weasley," Zabini cut in with the shake of his head. "Place is bloodbath city."

Ron leaned forward, not at all concerned with recognition. "How do you know?"

"One of our apparation jumps landed there."

"Is everyone there dead?"

Zabini's shoulder twitched. "Well, dead_ish_."

"Is. Everyone. There. Dead?"

"Yeah, Dead in the sense that they all sort of fell down-" Zabini's voice cracked, not noticing Ron stalking a couple steps away, his back to them all and clutching at the fiery roots of his hair. "An- and then got up-"

"I'll get as far as I can."

"And started eating each other." Zabini rushed the water bottle to his lips and sipped from it. His calm mask cracking slightly under his sarcastic retelling.

"Ron, you won't make it." Harry followed his friend those few steps. "Look, there are people here that could use your help… I need you here with me."

The redhead swung around with a helpless expression on his face. "Mate, this is Mione -my wife- we're talking about. Don't-"

"_Please_."

Tense seconds passed until a harsh gust of breath passed between the two silent friends. With a watery glare, Ron stomped off. Where to, Harry wasn't sure, but he did know for now the other would stay.

* * *

><p>Ron didn't have a set destination until he was slamming through the door leading to the roof. It wasn't fair that the sun was so high and fucking bright in the too blue sky when on the inside he felt like a storm was raging inside his chest. Once again, Harry just didn't understand. Like it was back in the war when they were camping and he missed his parents. Harry wasn't with anyone, hadn't been serious with anyone in a long time, and he wouldn't know what it was like to not know whether the love of your life was alive. It all just wasn't fair!<p>

He glared out over the horizon, believing Hermione was out there and fine- his whole family in fact. They were all capable witches and wizards, but he still had to be there with them. His vision distorted again with tears, he scrubbed at them. A flash of white. Across the way, the man they sort of met, Andy, was holding up a sign.

**ANY NEWS? **It read after he checked through the binoculars left out.

In a fit of pessimism he scribbled down on the dinner board, **NO HELP COMING.**

Seconds passed where he wasn't sure the other man was going to answer back, but then he saw the board rise.

**SO WHAT'S THE BAD NEWS?**

Ron almost smiled.

* * *

><p>"Harry!" His attempt to follow his friend halted, and he glanced over to see Terry bouncing in panic and shooting worried frowns at his temporary charge. "Help," he squeaked.<p>

Torn between going after Ron and helping a fatally ill person, his split-second decision was made when the thought popped into his head that the redhead probably needed some time to himself and Harry clung to it. He moved swiftly and arrived just in time to note the bloated woman's shallow breathing peter into a wheeze whistling from her slack mouth. One final, full body convulsion, and she was still. A moment passed, and he uncertainly reached out and pressed two fingers to her neck.

Nothing.

"Damnit," he hissed under his breath before covering the newly deceased woman with a nearby blanket. "… does anybody know her name?"

Everyone around shook their heads, staring at the woman hidden from view with bemused, almost guilty expressions.

"Died without a name…" spoke Tucker quietly, taking off his stained cap and rubbing a hand over the stubborn wisps of gray clinging to his scalp.

Pangs of guilt separate from their own assaulted Harry then. Despite the fact he wasn't a healer, he couldn't help but feel partially if not wholly responsible for doing nothing to aid her except poke at her injuries and check her temperature. A smaller, he considered a more callous, part of him that was more concerned with assuaging his guilt and often times offering real logic was screaming that he didn't know her -that she was sick when she arrived- what could he have possibly done with the first-aid he had to legitimately help her? It all made sense, but he couldn't stop himself from wondering if maybe he should have done something different.

The next bit that happened spun out of control so incredibly fast, it would take him minutes to piece it all together afterwards.

He blew out a breath, raking fingers through his hair. "Anyone else need-" He stopped at the gasps and the wide eyes staring past him.

The blanket slipped off as the deceased, bloated woman sat up in bed. Every beating heart in the store froze when, with a soft squish, her cloudy eyes opened to blank slits.

"Holy shit!" Terry yelped and scrambled away. Following his example, furniture screeched as the others tripped over objects and each other to get away.

A shrill voice in the corner held no acknowledgement for what was taking place, instead going on to plead, "Say **something**, Draco! You're starting to scare me."

With a chilling, gurgled howl, the bloated woman bolted from the bed. Every orifice of her round face blackened at the edges: The blank eyes, the flaring nostrils, and snapping teeth. She shouldn't be able to move so fast -not for her size- and was barreling straight for the area Malfoy and Parkinson stood shocked.

And Harry- Harry just froze.

Parkinson had no problems with moving whatsoever. In the face of a charging corpse -all mud-flap flailing arms and jello girth under a sheer floral nightgown- she darted in those impossibly high heels to the entrance, leaving Malfoy to deal with the oncoming attack. Aside from the saucer-like gray eyes and the sudden stillness inherent in all prey, the blond possessed a look of almost resignation on his face.

"Draco!" Parkinson shrieked, more or less hiding behind a cherry wood secretary with her wand an extended, trembling finger at the scene.

Her exclamation woke him up then, and the blond wizard leapt backwards out of sheer instinct only to be trapped further in the corner, staggering over a set of fireplace tools. The woman bounded closer, blocking Malfoy from view save for his platinum head.

"Malfoy-run!" Harry shouted the same time Parkinson trilled, "_**AVADA KEDAVRA**_!"

A flash of poisonous light temporarily blinded the store's occupants and painted the walls green. By the time Harry could blink away the stain in his retinas, the store had gone still save for Malfoy's panting. He stood, gaping at his open hands. Through the slices between his long fingers, an iron fire poker protruded crudely from a pulverized right eye. He breathed heavily through his nose for several dragging moments before abruptly straightening up and looking away from the sight. His face was a bit green, like leftover residue from the cast Unforgivable.

Parkinson moved carefully to his side, fixated on the limp mound splayed on the floor. "Dray-"

"How very effective, Pansy." He weakly brushed away her hand. "To cast the Killing Curse on something that's already dead. Smashing idea, really."

Twin dots of color rose high in the witch's cheeks. "Fuck you, Draco! I was just trying to help!"

"Note the trying and the failing, Pansy dear." He stepped around the growing pool of blood and walked past Harry, ignoring his existence entirely. He didn't make it past the bed the woman had died the first time on before stooping over and spilling the little contents of his stomach.

* * *

><p>"What the hell is going on?" Parkinson's absolutely shrill voice sliced through the other side conversations taking place. Her dagger-like nails drummed incessantly on the counter, shooting death glares at everyone who wasn't a snake back in school. "What is happening with my magic?"<p>

After her "Unforgivable" incident, the Muggles had to be obliviated since all of them were on the left side of panicked and centered on confusion. The witches and wizards left them in their dazed state to congregate at a commercial pub not too far away.

"Well?"

"We don't know." George shrugged, staring at the entrance. Angelina had exclaimed she had had enough for the day and dived heartily into a baby store. "… it all just- sort of happened."

"So no one knows anything? Splendid."

"Have a drink, love." Zabini pushed a glass reeking of rum to the fuming witch. He smirked into his own glass of amber liquid when she eventually knocked the entire beverage back after having sneered at him for sounding far too amused for the current situation.

Harry bit his lip, listening with one ear as perfectly logical to outrageous theories were exchanged. He had no idea himself, only remembering the -at the time- strange yet un-noteworthy incident at MLE processing when Dawlish had brought in a violent wizard who had randomly attacked people in Diagon Alley, even biting a small child. Frothing at the mouth like a mad dog, the wizard had to be gagged after taking a chunk out of Pammy Steinbeck who was in charge of the new fingerprint station. The wizard was next thrown into a single cell until he "calmed down;" he was gossiped about over the water cooler; and then subsequently forgotten about by those not directly involved. Harry had been one of those people until now, distracted by yesterday's blitzkrieg bloodbath. It was a start, but it didn't tell him how or why.

"Inferi?" Malfoy offered quietly, staring into his folded hands.

"Yeah, couldn't it-"

"No." Harry shook his head. "I've seen Inferi before, and those people out there are nothing like that."

"When have you seen Inferi?" George asked, sounding shocked. Apparently Ron had kept his word and told no one of Dumbledore and the cave searching for Slytherin's locket.

Years later the memory was still a bit tender but much better then it used to be, filling him with sadness and rage at the futile culmination of that night. He shot a glance at Malfoy before shaking his head again, dispelling the memories and refusing to answer George's question. The when and where didn't matter over much.

"It doesn't matter."

"But how are you sure?"

"Fine, do you want me to list them for you, Parkinson? One) Inferi move excruciatingly slow; you saw how fast that woman was. Two) They don't ea-eat- Three) They're controlled by Dark Magic; most magic still affects them; obviously not the case here-"

"And if it's a new Dark Lord?"

"Don't be stupid, Pansy." Malfoy scowled into the untouched glass Zabini had set out for him. "Do you think a new Dark Lord could slip past Potter, the Super Auror, without getting caught out by the sun shining out of his arse like some Muggle spotlight?"

Harry supposed he would take that as a compliment. Or not. "I think it's the bites," he said suddenly. All eyes present turned on him, ranging from incredulous (Parkinson) and amusedly indulgent (Zabini). George and strangely Malfoy seemed legitimately interested. He'd already said it; he figured he'd press on , now that they were clearly expecting an explanation. "Before, when they first arrived, that man, Glenn, said she was already sick when she showed up covered in bites. At the time though, she could still walk."

"How long ago was that?" Malfoy asked with a calculative pensiveness that Harry, oddly, was sure was no threat to him.

At least not immediately.

Just as he shrugged, Zabini answered, "About four, five hours ago."

"Right…" Harry heaved a breath, running a hand through his messy locks. He couldn't wrap his mind around the next words he was about to say, too horrified of what they meant. "… so the bites killed her, and the bites… brought her back."

"But we c-can't be sure," George said. "How do you know for sure?"

"I felt her pulse, and she was gone. There's no other explanation I can think of."

"It makes sense though..." Parkinson traced a long nail around the rim of her glass with thoughtful look on her face, unbothered by the fact she was politely addressing a Weasley by agreeing with Harry Potter. "Maybe that's why this -whatever it is- spread so fast."

Malfoy seemed to be bothered, judging by the look he shot her. "… so who else is bitten?"

"Well, Frank, most definitely," Harry replied promptly.

"Who?"

"The older fellow with his daughter."

Too absorbed in the conversation, Harry didn't bat an eye when George excused himself to go check on his wife, leaving him alone with the three former Slytherins.

"What about that muggle hick?" Parkinson's sharp (no longer squashed) nose wrinkled in distaste.

"He says he fell. I patched up his leg. It looks like a regular cut."

"So no one else?"

"Yep, we should probably get Frank into quarantine."

"Where exactly do we do that?" Zabini asked.

"I don't know. There must be some place in here where we can keep him."

"And then what?" Malfoy interrupted calmly, looking up to make eye contact with him for the first time in years; not even after his trial when he thanked Harry for his testimony for his mum and himself.

"What do you mean?"

"It's too dangerous to keep him around here."

Frowning, Harry glanced at Parkinson and Zabini and the pair had matching solemn expressions. The shared understanding between the trio irked Harry more than he'd ever care to admit. Then it hit him. His eyes narrowed. "I'm sorry, just to make sure we're all on the same page here, are we talking about killing him?"

"You prefer to wait for him to die so he can have a go at killing us?"

"You- you can't just kill him. That's murder. He has a daughter!"

Malfoy shrugged, albeit uncomfortably. "There isn't much of a choice."

Harry's mouth worked soundlessly having dropped open at the other man's cold-hearted dismissal. He silently sought either of the other ex-Slytherins' support but neither were forthcoming.

"He's right," Parkinson agreed quietly.

Malfoy pushed off from the bar. "It has to be done, Potter." And with that he sauntered from the pub, Harry's wand in his hand.

"Malfoy!" Harry shouted at his retreating back, but when the blond ignored him he vaulted over the counter and dashed after him. "You can't do this! What if I'm wrong?"

"I'm not going to wait around and find out," the blond wizard tossed over his shoulder. His steps slowed dramatically when the furniture store came into view.

Harry tried to _Accio_ his wand but the git had a firm grip on it. "Malfoy, give me my wand."

"No."

The two strode into the store shoulder-to-shoulder. The muggles looked up at their arrival and tensed. The intensity surrounding the two men alerted them to bad news. Harry pushed on ahead and blocked the other man from the father/daughter pair while Malfoy halted feet away, looking wary.

Shoulders squared, chin high, green eyes hard, Harry stood tall. "You're not doing this."

"What's going on?" Frank asked behind him, frowning at the wand in Malfoy's hand. His skin was near translucent now, and Harry hated to acknowledge the man looked more terrible.

"Malfoy is here to kill you."

"Wh-what?" He smiled nervously, believing Harry to be joking.

"Such tact, Potter." Malfoy's pale and tense face insisted otherwise.

"Why?"

"You're infected and eventually you'll become one of them." Harry's heart ached when the daughter's doe eyes filled with tears.

"Is this true?" Frank looked up at Malfoy. "Are you here to kill me?"

"_Shit_." Malfoy turned away and rubbed agitatedly at his brow.

"No!" The daughter glared wildly between the two, young men as she clung to her father's arm. "Leave my dad alone!"

She must know it was true.

Frank tugged her back and tucked her weeping face under his chin. He whispered some words into her auburn hair before turning his attention back to them. A smile still on his face but his eyes were brimming with fear and pleading in silent words he'd never dare say in front of the bawling girl in his arms. "… you have to understand. Since yesterday, I'm the only person in the world she has left. Her mum and her brothers…"

"Well, Malfoy, what are you waiting for?" Harry snapped. His cool was lost, and he was angry- angry at the situation; angry at Malfoy for his logic; angry at himself because a part of him agreed with said logic; and angry at the total unfairness of this sudden shitty shift in life. Green glared at the shaking strip of holly in the former Death Eater's grasp. "Go ahead. Why don't you kill Tucker too while you're at it."

The older man in reference leaned forward in his chair, alarmed. "Hey, I didn't get bit-"

"But we can't be sure," Harry replied succinctly. "Do it, Malfoy."

Then it was like Malfoy was transported to that night on the Astronomy tower: His pointed face had lost all colour and if Harry squinted, his sharp edges were shaking. He had yet to lift the wand. The blond's previously closed-off expression had cracked open to reveal the conflict warring itself inside his head. At that moment, Harry knew he wasn't going to do it -couldn't do it- and that he was still mortified of having driven an iron rod through a charging woman's eye socket. Harry could tell all this and even sympathized, but his suppressed rage at the situation was hitching up his blood pressure and Malfoy's last ditch effort at raising his wand -Harry's wand- had tightened the hinges of his jaw.

"You're a fucking coward, Malfoy. Even when you're going the Slytherin route to save your own skin, you still can't do it," Harry spat hatefully after tearing his wand away from the blond.

"It's still too dangerous," Malfoy murmured despondently, not fighting over the wand taken from him.

"_It_ is a **he**, and we're not going to murder him just so we-"

"Stop it!" the daughter screamed, rubbing her palms jerkily over her ears. "Stop talking about my dad like that!"

"… how much time do I have?" Frank whispered.

"I don't know-"

"A couple more hours at the most."

"Shut-Up, Malfoy!" Harry lurched forward and strong-armed the blond from the store.

The two parted like opposing magnets as Malfoy cried, "Get your filthy, half blood hands off me!"

"Cut it out with that shit."

"It has to be done-"

"Just as long as you're not the one that has to do it, right? Merlin, Malfoy! You have everyone in there terrified. Can't you show an ounce of compassion?"

"To who? Those muggles?" His incredulous tone was marred with disgust and irritatingly innocent confusion.

"Yes!" Harry exploded, throwing up his arms. "They're also human beings if you'd take the time to notice. We're all in this together, or does the all-mighty Draco Malfoy not put himself on the same plane as all the lowly plebeians? There's a young girl in there about to lose her father, and you're being so fucking callous about it! I mean, what the bloody fuck have you lost-"

Brilliant pain burst behind his eyelids, and Harry found himself on the flat of his back. His nose was throbbing and seeping blood. Sure that it was broken, he blinked through reactionary tears to gaze up to see Malfoy rubbing at his fist. Molten silver glared at Harry with such hate he almost flinched, but the pain bleeding into the edges of Malfoy's scowl caused him to. Beats passed of Malfoy panting and causing the glass skylights overhead to crack and splinter.

"Draco," whispered Parkinson as she crept to his side. Her hand froze above his shoulder when his already tense frame tightened further into a knot of wiry muscle. "Calm down," she hissed when a wind started to pick up in the corridor. The ferocity of it built up more and more -whipping their clothes and scaring the muggles- until it all abruptly stopped.

All the while Malfoy had kept skewering Harry with his eyes. Fists squeezing out the blood in his hands. The blond was positively vibrating with his fury. Harry -too stunned that Malfoy had actually hit him and successfully broken his nose again- was waiting for the shouted vitriol, but he was instead surprised when Malfoy sealed his lips over his bared teeth and turned away.

Harry barely heard the "Fuck you, Potter," before Malfoy stalked away.

Before Harry could process how Malfoy could flip out over the tiniest insult, a stinging slap was delivered to his cheek. Angry, female hissing attacked his ear. "How dare you imply Draco hasn't lost anything?"

"Like who-his wife?" Harry spat, leaning away from Parkinson's small, imposing form. "I've seen her around Diagon, and the woman is no big loss."

"Well you and I agree on that, but no, you insensitive, little prick. You think Draco is just coasting through this unscathed? Fucking hell, you do, don't you?" She bit angrily at her lips as if she was holding herself back from full out attacking him.

"His name was Scorpius Orion Malfoy, and he was Draco's five year-old son."

The words were a separate, debilitating blow that drained Harry of all his indignant ire and filled him with burning shame.

"I-… I didn't know," he whispered under the click-clack of the witch's retreating steps.

Navy pants legs moved into the corner of his vision. He followed them up to watch Zabini staring after Parkinson and sipping from his drink. His grin rueful. "Good to see you've all bonded over this disaster."

Touching his finger to his upper lip, it came away smeared with crimson.

"Hey!" Ron breathed heavily, obviously having run all the way here from wherever. "I felt something. What'd I miss?" He then pointed and frowned at Harry on the floor and bleeding. "Whoa, what happened to you?"

Harry didn't answer.

Parkinson was right. He was an insensitive prick.

* * *

><p>I know it's been forever. I hope you all haven't given up on this. Please review and tell me what you think. I'm thoroughly unhappy with life in general, and I need some sort of feedback. Please? Okay, done being pathetic now.<p> 


	7. Right

**VII. Right**

The yellow, the pink, or the powder blue? Maybe the purple?

This would be easier if she knew the sex of the baby, but Angelina knew George, and he held firm on it being a surprise. She could just as easily perform the spell the healer taught her, but her love for her husband and his wishes were greater than her curiosity… most of the time.

_Speak of the Devil. _She grinned, watching George as he walked into the store. Once she saw his troubled expression, Angelina frowned and placed the infant onesies back on their display table. It had been so nice to lose herself in all things Baby, even if she couldn't truly forget what was happening past those toy block pillars guarding the doorway.

"What's wrong?"

George shook his head, stopping feet away from her. The tense line in his brow had yet to cease, and she knew whatever his problem was he wasn't finished thinking it through and he wouldn't say anything until he'd come to some conclusion. Unfortunately her patience was tentative at best with her influx of hormones and given the last twenty four hours, it was a wonder she still considered it a virtue.

"What did they say? George, don't hold that hand up at me. Do the others know anything?"

Instead of answering her questions, he fixed his serious blue eyes on her. "How's your arm?"

"Well… it hurts." Cool air hit the bite mark on her forearm upon rolling her sleeve back. Despite the simple healing charm, it was still tender and had only scabbed over. His hand shot out and gently pulled her arm forward, a finger shakily traced the curve of a row of phantom teeth. "It isn't too bad. Why?"

Something inscrutable flashed across his face before he smiled. "No reason."

"Harry may be just an auror, but he knows more about medical magic than either of us. Should I have him take a look-"

"No," George snapped before relaxing the sudden grip he had on her arm. "I mean, no, he said to just let it heal naturally."

"But that doesn't make sense. I'm pregnant."

"How's the baby doing?" he interrupted firmly.

Despite her concern over her husband's odd behavior, a small, warm smile broke out over her full lips. "He or she's been kicking the hell out of my kidneys."

"Yeah?" His face lit up as he moved closer and eagerly smoothed his hands over her round belly. He kneeled down and pushed her shirt up. "Hey in there," he whispered against her dark skin. "Your mum's going to be awfully disappointed she's going to give birth to a star beater instead of those flighty chasers-"

"Flighty chasers?" Angelina scoffed, cuffing him on the back of the head.

He ducked his head and chuckled before turning back to the ballooned flesh. "Your papa here can't be any happier, but tone it down, yeah? Your mum's internal organs are not bludgers, remember that. We love you, and we'll see you soon." Dry lips pressed a kiss against her round stomach.

The fingers she had been carding through his copper hair stilled. "… George, I can't have my baby here."

"Of course you can." He slowly stood up, gazing into her eyes earnestly. "We don't need a hospital. People, Muggle and Wizard, have been delivering babies on their own for thousands of years." At the uncertain chewing of her lip, he hurried on to say, "We can do it all here: Move a bed in that corner and choose a crib… Yeah… yeah, what d'you think?"

"George…"

"Trust me. I love you, and I love this little tike more than anything in the world. There's nothing I won't do to keep you both safe. We **can **do this."

The twinkle in his eyes was almost manic in their sincerity.

Angelina still wasn't sure if they could do it, but his enthusiasm was something she hadn't seen since their wedding day -and further back since Fred- and she didn't have the lack of heart to argue it.

"… okay," she whispered, squeezing his hands. "We'll do it on our own."

* * *

><p>It took a full fifteen minutes to convince Ron to not find and kick in Malfoy's face all in Harry's defense. Well, that and a surreptitious calming charm.<p>

Not going into certain specifics, Harry told him about the bites and Frank and the disagreement over what should be done with the infected man. All Harry said concerning Malfoy was that he said some uncalled for things and the other wizard replied accordingly. Ron didn't need to know the depths of Malfoy's pain nor Harry's shame, only how to correctly perform _Episkey_.

Surprisingly enough -or perhaps not so when he had been so trigger happy- Ron was on Malfoy's side. Though emotional his friend was, a strategist he was and he saw the reason in eliminating potential threats before they got out of hand. Harry felt like he didn't know his friend anymore. He understood the motives of a self-preserving Slytherin, but not of the typically chivalrous Gryffindor Harry believed Ron to be. Yet after everything, Harry didn't have it in him to argue a lost battle. Frank was looking -if possible- worse, and Ron had volunteered to "take care of it." So Harry had bit his lip and murmured something about putting together a meal for everyone.

What he really wanted to do was go vomit after discovering a streak of dried blood not his own on his arm and then go apologize to Malfoy, but he didn't know where he stormed off to. Harry assumed Parkinson must be with him and neither wanted to see his mutilation-free face at the moment. Though to be honest, it was more for lack of words than respecting their desired distance. Even after the somber parade of funerals after the war, Harry still found his usual apologies -no matter how sincere- to other's loved ones weren't enough, and he didn't think he could do any better now. If he started issuing condolences to one person, he'd have to do the same for everyone else. They had all lost at least someone close to them yesterday, but for some reason Harry felt worse about Malfoy. Probably because he accused him of nothing lost, and maybe focusing on someone else's hurts distracted Harry from dealing with his own.

The food court was divided into a small selection of quick-order eateries: Thai, Indian, Chinese, a McDonald's and more. Harry wasn't much in the mood to eat and wasn't sure if any of the others were either. Frank's pending fate had unsettled the Muggles, all of them choosing to remain in the furniture store and sit quietly. Malfoy's slip of control of his magic had been thankfully overlooked, instead assumed as a passing storm outside. With a need for distraction, Harry went through all of the food stores mentally cataloguing and casting stasis spells. For now, he was going to have to make this work.

* * *

><p>To say Draco was angry would be an understatement. He couldn't even see straight as he moved through the first floor heading nowhere in particular with a scowl on his face and a scream choking the back of his throat. A quick shouting match had finally gotten Pansy to bugger off.<p>

No, he didn't want to calm down.

No, he didn't want to talk about it.

And no, he most certainly didn't want to _cry_ if he needed to. He would never cry over anything Harry bloody Potter said to him, even if it did stab Draco at his most vulnerable with an acid-tipped dagger.

All he wanted was yesterday to have never happened and for today to be better than it was, even if it included Astoria but at least he'd still have his mum and-

His stalking down a narrow passage with small offices on either side ended with an oak door and a red plaque reading, "Security Surveillance." He went inside, figuring anyone that wanted to find him wouldn't. The room was a cramped, poorly lit space with a wall of those talking boxes only miniature-sized. He drew closer, noticing that these were silent and showing none of those ghastly images on their monochromatic faces. They were quite boring, showing fixed angles of clothing racks and empty spaces. Movement in the far right corner drew him closer as he forgot his apprehension for the Muggle contraptions. The picture was grainy and colored mostly white; it reminded him of a blank canvas. A figure emerged from the black sliver on the left -a man- followed by two others… a girl and hunched man maybe? He squinted and inched closer. The bright glow in such a dark room caused his eyes to strain and ache.

Wait a tick, he'd know those spattering of freckles anywhere and he was sure the blob of grey hair would really be carrot orange. His top lip pulled automatically into a standard sneer. It weakened when he recognized the sick man and his daughter.

_Why are- _and then Draco knew.

* * *

><p>The empty store tucked into a corner of the second floor seemed to be the best place. If a "best" anything could be right for something like this. "Convenient" maybe, but that just sounded worse.<p>

Introductions were made, but none of them were really listening.

Shaking a man's hand with a double barrel shotgun in the other he was intending to use didn't call for much need to stand on ceremony.

The daughter, Nicole, staggered under her father's weight. Her face red and slick with snot and tears. She had not said a word when Ron arrived, only whimpering and inhaling sharp, congested breaths. Refusing to believe this was really truly happening, she had switched to auto-pilot, giving her father a hand to slide down against the wall because he was too weak to stand and crumpling down beside him, staring through thick tears at the dirty tiles and listening to his gasps for oxygen.

Ron stood awkwardly off to the side, turning his face away from the small family and pretending he wasn't there. Moments dragged with only the sound of strained gulps of air. He should have carried the poor guy, instead of marching him in his condition like a damn firing squad, but so much information had been thrust upon him that a priority was simply a priority in his mind. It was easy to forget when survival was just that, survival.

Frank's lungs were on fire. They felt as if he'd been running in cold weather and even now that he stopped he still couldn't catch his breath. His arms and legs felt like they were drained of all blood, cold and limp, having no reason to move any longer. But he did. His head lolled to the side and looked at his daughter with tired eyes.

"Hey…" he forced out on an exhale, his lips dry and stinging.

Her head still bowed, Nicole only turned her face in the direction of his weak voice. He decided to leave her as is; he didn't have the energy to coax as his vision went blurry around the edges.

"You know I love you, right?"

Silently, Ron slipped out of the store. He waited outside, leaning against the front windows of a shoe boutique. Though he kept his distance, he still watched and whatever was being said, the girl started to sob. He glanced at the shotgun the older lady, Norma, had offered him and felt vaguely sick. Muggle Weaponry training had taught him how to use it, so he wasn't worried about that. It was the other thing.

Ron had seen the way Harry had looked at him, the incredulity and the flash of disapproval as if he didn't recognize his best mate. It's not as if Ron wanted to do it -blasting away a defenseless muggle like some death eater- but this was different and someone had to do it. If Harry's theory was to be believed then Ron had to take every precaution. Yesterday's screaming and fire and _so, so much blood_- he had to live through this, for Hermione and his family.

He reluctantly pushed off the glass when he noticed over the few minutes that passed Frank's pallid skin had gone even whiter, the bags under his eyes bruising and sinking into his skull. His limp arms were draped across his daughter's shuddering shoulders, twitching in effort to hug her.

"Don't cry. Please, honey, don't cry. There's a place… a better place where me, you… your mum and brothers… we'll- we'll all be together again… I really believe that." His tongue kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. His dry syllables dropping out with a pained wince. The visible milky blue blood vessels in the hand cupping her weeping face pulsed black, and he let it fall into his lap with a spike of fear. Tears burned his eyes as he smiled with a weak pull of his lips. "It's time to go, sweetheart."

"No- I wa-want to stay with-with you," Nicole hiccupped, frantically shaking her head.

He could barely feel the vice-like grip she had on his hand. "You have to."

"Please, **please** let me stay."

"Best do what your father says." Ron stepped forward, his eyes trained on a spot above their heads with a look of grim determination on his freckled face.

Nicole's mouth dropped open, a look of outrage on her beet root face, but Frank nudged her. "Go on. You have to leave now."

"But-"

"**Please**," he urged, ending in a fit of coughs.

She stared at him, biting back a sob as every muscle in her small body coiled tight. With a muffled snort, she was running from the store and out of sight. As soon as she was out, Ron pulled the cage door down. Its rattle and slam hung in the silence that engulfed the remaining two men.

Glassy eyes traced the ceiling as clear blue ones stared intently at the ground. Minutes ticked by of Frank's whistling and wheezing. When Ron knew he couldn't take the waiting anymore and was having second thoughts, the muggle man's breathing stopped, the last beat of his pulse dragging to a stop in his veins. His balding head riddled with droplets of sweat fell back against the wall with a dull thud.

Seeing this, Ron blew out a slow breath. He hiked the shot gun up and took aim.

All he had to do now was wait.

* * *

><p>The girl's black and white image streaked through numerous screens until she ducked behind a nondescript counter and curled into a ball, tucking her head and covering her ears.<p>

Draco could hardly be bothered with her, having his nose practically pressed up against the static glass watching the one Weasel poised and the muggle sitting motionless as Draco's breath fogged the bottom half of the scene. As seconds dragged on and on, he watched even more closely. At the first movement -an arm flopping- he reared back and stumbled over a chair with wheels. His back hit the door with a painful slam.

At the loud, far-off **bang**, he slid to the floor, breathing hard and gazing intently at nothing.

* * *

><p>Harry bit his lip at the following round of surprised shouts as he cast another charm on a loaf of bread. In his mind, he told Malfoy he was right.<p>

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

Thought I'd squeeze another update in before the best holiday of the year. Thank you so much for the reviews and alerts! They seriously pick up my mood. And on that note, I hope this chapter is something resembling enjoyable. Don't forget to tell me what you think. Happy Halloween!


	8. Eat, Malfoy

**VIII. Eat, Malfoy**

* * *

><p>A week they had been there; the first couple of days being a quiet, awkward affair. No one really talked to the other, mumbling nothing more than a few words at a time and always inconsequential things. Everyone had basically accepted the fact the television nor the radio were going to pick up a signal and new information was a useless want. The ring of moaning, groaning bodies outside grew larger with each passing minute and the odds of leaving equally dwindled. Not that any of them mentioned these things aloud at mealtimes; those were the only half hour slots in the day where everyone was together, picking at the food Harry whipped together. (He needed something to do after all.) After the grunts of gratitude, they'd all disperse to their respective areas.<p>

Having plenty of mattresses and box springs, stores were chosen and turned into sleeping quarters. Harry wasn't sure where everyone slept, allowing the much needed space to process and cope with what had happened. He knew Ron had claimed some garish sports memorabilia store up on the second floor; Harry couldn't fathom how he could be surrounded by all those bright, clashing colours but summers bunking with him at the Burrow and all the orange of the Cannons sprung to mind. George and Angelina mostly kept to themselves inside the baby store. Zabini and Parkinson had shacked up in a jewelry store, the windows magically blacked out. Harry himself kept to the mattress store; cleaned out as it was by the others, he reveled in the private space to move. He mostly stayed, guiltily for the geography: While his "quarters" were on the first floor, the fine men's apparel was indirectly across the way up on the second floor. The narrow window panes were also tinted by Parkinson's wand; a conjured heavy curtain hung over the entrance, and if that wasn't off-putting enough, the chain-link barrier was habitually engaged.

He hadn't seen Malfoy since the blond had punched him. Only Parkinson ventured inside bringing food; Malfoy never came out; and the petite witch always left seething. The other day she forgot to put up a silencing charm and half the mall was treated to thirty minutes of screeched cursing for Malfoy to "eat something, you stubborn, skeletal shit!" No other voice joined the echo of hers as the people in the vicinity (including Harry) shamelessly listened to her diatribe. When it seemed Malfoy wasn't going to do much of anything -only so much could be discerned by sound alone- she stomped out with the slam of the cage door. After that day she only dropped off the food and didn't stay. She'd apparently traded in her silenced screaming sessions with Malfoy for ones with Zabini of an entirely different nature and those, much to chagrin of the building's other occupants, were loud and unrestrained.

The days following the change in screaming partners and one smoother flowing meal, the two Slytherin alumni slipped away with giggles and even hungrier grins not going unnoticed by the eye rolls of the café's other occupants. Once they were out of sight, Harry looked at the tray of food he now routinely left out for Parkinson to take to the reclusive blond and frowned.

He didn't know what to expect as he approached the fine men's apparel. As he had gotten within fifteen feet, he felt the tingle of Muggle Repelling wards, weak but enough; it would be a pureblood's priority.

He thought about knocking and leaving the tray, but he doubted Malfoy would take it. Harry didn't really want to go in, yet guilt and curiosity were powerful forces, so he lifted the chain link, scooted the tray under with his foot, then ducked under himself before he could think it through.

The darkness was the first thing that hit him, a drastic change from the sun-lit, high-ceiling corridors. The second was the overwhelming aroma of spring flowers, stinging Harry's nostrils and causing his eyes to water. With a coughed out air-cleaning charm, he could breathe again. Balancing the tray with one arm, he held his wand ahead, casting _Lumos_ and tip-toeing further into the store.

Tuxes and suits outfitted the walls, and as he drew closer, the weak flicker of a candle drew him towards the back. The magical glow skimmed over a glossy leather-upholstered headboard, untouched fluffy pillows, and highlighted a head of platinum hair. Harry started when he realized bloodshot, grey eyes were watching him.

"Blimey, Malfoy," he hissed, "Make a noise next time, will you."

Those vacant eyes disappeared with a slow blink, clearly nonplussed. "What are you doing here, Potter?"

Harry wordlessly lifted the tray, figuring it was answer enough. He didn't know what to say before coming and he was even more at a loss now at the ghostly lit pallor of Malfoy's expressionless face, his cracked lips, and the heavy smudges under his eyes.

"Did that shrill harpy send you?" Malfoy rolled over and put his back to Harry, displaying the chaotic curls and bed head cow licks of his blonde hair. It was so un-Malfoy.

It took no puzzling on Harry's part to know just who the "harpy" the other wizard was referring to. He shook his head but remembered it wasn't going to be seen. "No, she… er, got a bit distracted with other things." He felt so awkward standing in this poorly lit space, balancing a tray of sandwiches for his old rival who, by the way, seemed happy to be miserable in his supine state and rumpled beyond instant magical repair.

"Other things such as fucking Zabini, no doubt." His voice was quiet and unused but held an impressive combination of amusement and scorn thinly veiled by disinterest. "Thanks for clearing out the stink of funeral parlor, Potter, but you may leave now. And take that rubbish with you. I'm not hungry."

Still blushing over Malfoy's careless reference to his friends shagging, Harry's jaw clenched at the lazy dismissal. He walked around the foot of the bed and placed the tray on the checkout counter where the candle stump burned feebly. The tip of his wand shot glowing orbs that bobbed in the air over their heads, effectively illuminating half the store. The white linens were in a twisted pile that hung over the edge, leaving Malfoy exposed in the same black outfit Harry had last seen him in days ago, only wrinkled and practically pooling around his too thin frame. From this angle, Harry could see his eyes squeezed shut from the sudden introduction to sufficient light.

Ignoring the protesting groan, Harry banished the cooled wax sticking to the counter. "You have to eat something."

"Fuck. Off."

"This isn't healthy. I know things are crap right now. If I gave in, I'd be right in that bed with you-" He paused and pushed on with a stammer and a renewed blush. " What I mean to say is I'd be in a bed of my own, not yours, er, I mean- life goes on."

"And we've seen spectacularly gruesome evidence of that, haven't we," the blond grumbled tiredly into the mattress. A spike of irritation dashed across Harry's features; he was trying here; he didn't have to come, and the least Malfoy could do was hold off on being a prick for one minute.

"Parkinson is worried about you, and I'm sure Zabini is also." Harry certainly wasn't, not in the least, even if he was here now trying to make Malfoy feel better. It was for the other two Slytherins... because they seem so concerned fucking amongst diamonds and white gold.

"Oh Potty, I didn't know you cared so much."

"I don't," he replied automatically.

Moments passed of watching Malfoy with pinched lips while feigning sleep, obviously done talking with him. With a sigh, Harry cast a warming charm on his tea. "Eat, Malfoy," Harry ordered in a gentle voice before walking away, and all he had wanted to do was say Sorry.

* * *

><p>For the first couple of days, all Draco could and would do was sleep. He'd toppled into the bed Zabini had kindly (or rather Draco would eventually owe him a favor) levitated in here, this suit shop. The location was Pansy's doing, he was sure. The annoying witch always did like him in nice-cut, Muggle men's apparel and stranding him here must be her not-so-subtle hint to dress in nothing but. Too bad for her when he didn't have so much as the will to do more than get out of bed to use the toilet in the back, let alone to primp. He even had yet to change clothes, there go the over-abundance of fragrance charms. Pansy's reasoning was to "mask the stink of his stubbornness," but Draco suspected they were to drive him out of the room and into less-scented air.<p>

He had yet to leave its confines. His constant sleeping sufficiently distracted him enough from the pungent smell so his olfactory senses could adjust. Pansy interrupted those long bouts of oblivion -or terrifying nightmares he couldn't remember but woke him gasping and covered in a cold sweat- with her whinging about petty things like eating and taking care of himself. She'd demanded, threatened, cajoled, even once begged but she had shot a stinging hex at him soon after that he barely flinched at. She'd said a lot of banal words meant to placate, but he didn't listen to a word of it. She may be his oldest friend, but every day she came with her bitching, he wanted to inflict physical harm upon her.

Didn't she know? With an iron fire poker, he was quite the force to be reckoned with.

He'd slept so much he couldn't anymore, and when he tried his eyeballs felt too big for his lids to fold over and his head throbbed. A real blessing and a curse. Sometimes he drifted to sleep and woke in his room at the manor, a small body whining for him to wake up and jumping on his chest, Draco feigning sleep until he pounced, pulling down Scorpius and tickling the giggling brat until he shrieked his surrender and attacked Draco in turn, because Malfoys get even. Sunlight pouring in, painting them a glowing white, as they discussed all the fun-filled things they'd do that day, but every time he moved to sit up Draco's bloodshot eyes opened and he was back in the dark. Each time his chest felt like exploding, and he wanted nothing more than to die. Reality hurt too much, and he didn't know how he was expected to handle it.

So Draco had listened to Pansy's shouting when all he wanted to tell her was he didn't have the will to do all the things she demanded of him over and over until one day she didn't come. Outwardly, he had sighed with relief until the chain-link rattled and Potter's glowing face broke through the darkness like some dumb beacon.

Draco didn't think anything could surprise him anymore, not after what he'd seen, but his childhood rival's appearance whilst bringing him food, of all things, did. Although a smaller part of him expected as much. It was Saint Potter after all.

The wanker had stumbled in and snapped at Draco when he wasn't even invited. Startling the Great Harry Potter caused the barest hint of a smirk to curl a corner of his chapped lips; he'd rolled away into a pillow to hide as much. It felt wrong to feel anything but misery. If anyone were to ask, the light hurt his eyes. Potter's attitude made him think Pansy might have wanted a break from him and couldn't pass up the opportunity to garner a reaction out of him, no matter how nasty it tended to be around everyone's Savior, but judging by the other man's hesitant reply that wasn't the case.

"No, she… er, got a bit distracted with other things." Draco could hear the blush in Potter's stilted words. Gryffindors are disgustingly prudish, and it didn't take the ex-Slytherin long to figure it out: Pansy and Blaise were fucking, simple as that. Pansy wouldn't touch anyone within the building save for himself and their caramel-skinned friend- well, and maybe Potter. He had filled out quite nicely, Draco could sneeringly admit. Draco clearly wasn't interested in her, and here was Potter. The smart deduction did nothing more but add the slightest bit of amusement and disappointed acceptance to his mood.

He didn't let himself ponder too much over Potter's presence on his own volition. The not-as-strong smell of ham had replaced Pansy's charms, making him nauseous. His stomach had rumbled and twisted, and he'd told Potter beyond politely to go away. Of course, manners were totally lost on the Man Who Defeated Voldemort, and in answer more light shone down on him. It was the light that forced his face deeper into the pillow. Before he didn't care that he hadn't showered or changed and in all likelihood looked like hell, but Potter made him conscious of it.

When an order to eat came from the worst of sources, the growl in the back of his throat formed the eloquent words, "Fuck. Off." Wasn't it clear he wasn't hungry? Honestly, how could he be?

"This isn't healthy." Here it starts. "I know things are crap right now." Crap didn't even cover half of it. "If I gave in, I'd be right in that bed with you- What I mean to say is I'd be in a bed of my own, not yours, er, I mean-" Potter continued on too quickly for Draco to process his embarrassment. "Life goes on."

The mounting bitterness behind his lips spilled over without conscious effort. The onslaught of images assaulted him in sickening waves. Pressing his face harder against the suffocating darkness of the pillow saved him from closing his eyes; they would only become clearer if he did.

Amidst this, Potter was spouting some sympathetic dribble about Blaise and Pansy being "worried" for him. Yes, their stress easily remedied by shared orgasms. "Oh Potty, I didn't know you cared so much." And didn't sarcasm ever sound so forced? It was true though, in a sad way: Most likely the only people he had left on this wretched planet was Pansy, a dear but vapid friend who had convinced herself her magically-altered face came naturally; and Blaise, a smug Lothario with more semen than actual pure blood running through his veins.

Draco's chest ached keenly with loss.

"I don't," Potter retorted, not surprising in the least. Maybe he would leave if Draco pretended he was asleep, instead of firing back with, "Well, you're here, aren't you?" Because that would perpetuate this magnificently quaint interaction, and Draco preferred rather much to do without it. He's not a schoolboy anymore.

Beats passed, then a heavy sigh sounded from the foot of the bed. "Eat, Malfoy."

Once Potter was gone, Draco rolled onto his back and stared at the globes of light hovering above him. He wished he had his wand so that he could cancel out the bobbing nuisances. Fucking Potter. His eyes wandered to the plate of sandwiches. He sneered when his stomach throbbed in hunger, but his appetite wouldn't consider it.

The sour taste in his mouth turned a little more bitter.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry it took so long, and this isn't very long either, but it's something, right? I hope this is okay filler for right now. Too many WIPs to keep up with and with the holidays coming up. There will definitely be another chapter posted before X-mas for those still with me on this. I really do appreciate you. Thanks!<p> 


	9. Stupefy

**IX. Stupefy**

Harry couldn't say why, but the following morning he found himself taking breakfast up to Malfoy. He left the fence open and banished the curtain and the black tint to the windows; the glowing orbs had faded to firefly specks, and he figured the pale pureblood could do with some sunlight.

Telltale rustling alerted Harry the other man was stirring. He stopped, gazing bemusedly at the soft smile on Malfoy's sleeping face. Used to a scowl or sneer or indifference, it was shocking to see such a pleasant expression on his schoolboy rival. And it was truly pleasing to the eye, Harry realized with vague mortification. The sight being so rare, it was all short-lived once daylight penetrated purple eyelids: Long lashes fluttered; arms rose over his head and his back arched into a stretch (and Harry most definitely wasn't watching the exposed strip of flat stomach); grey irises took in their surroundings; and the smile faded to a flat line. His gaze landed on Harry and hardened.

"Why are you here again?" Draco's eyes stung against the sunlight, struggling to keep them open, but he kept his glare steady and un-pained on his now suddenly once again four-eyed annoyance. "You're wearing glasses."

"Yeah, um, my back-up pair." As if Draco's absentminded observation was permission of some sort, Potter continued forward with his food tray. "I had them corrected when I started training -because you know I'm an auror, right?-" The roll of Draco's eyes went unnoticed. "Well, it started fading some last night, and I didn't much see the point of recasting a temporary charm every other hour so… yeah."

Pale eyebrows drew together in response to this new bit of information. It could be completely unrelated, but the return of Potter's poor vision couldn't be a coincidence when added to the list of other new defects: The Anti-Apparation, the rapid energy drain of hexes, everything-

"Please eat this time." His thoughts were cut off as the tray of last night's sandwiches disappeared with an odd flicker. "Look, it's just tea and toast this time."

Irritated by the interruption yet relieved because the conclusion hanging unsurely in his mind frankly horrified him, his eyes took in the modest spread before him. The sight equally turned his stomach and caused it to curdle in hunger.

"I reiterate, why are you here again?"

"You have to eat, don't you?"

"Yes," Draco grudgingly agreed, because he wasn't going to argue with logic. "But that doesn't explain you acting like you're my mum- I mean, we never liked each other. I'd respect your wishes and let you starve." Which wasn't exactly true -because any Slytherin could see Potter was survival so keeping him healthy ensured that- but he really wanted the other man to leave him alone.

"And that's where you and I differ. School was a long time ago, Malfoy, and right now we can't let petty rivalries several years old destroy our chances of staying alive-"

"You do realize how wrong that sounds, don't you? Having to stay alive all over again? I rather relive the war if you ask me." At least then he would still have his parents and magic, and he wouldn't know the crippling pain of losing Scorpius because he wouldn't exist.

Potter's jaw visibly tightened, a sliver of clenched white teeth peeking out between his lips. After several beats, he relaxed and continued on as if Draco had said nothing. Draco's disappointment at Potter's lack of response was quickly lost under his next words. "… I also wanted to- to apologize for what I said the other day. I was angry and wrong and didn't mean it. I didn't know about Scor-"

"**Don't **say his name," Draco snarled, nearly lunging out of the bed and attacking the man, but his weakness and exhaustion left him dizzy.

"Okay, I won't. I'm sorry."

Tension pulled the ensuing silence taut. The blond wizard glared at the floor as if the tile was at fault for everything, and the brunet darted glances between mannequin suits and his childhood rival.

Surprisingly Malfoy was the first to break the quiet by exclaiming a huff. "I'll eat as long as _you_ **leave**."

Considering that to be the greatest success he was ever going to achieve with a Malfoy, Harry agreed by dipping his chin and doing just as the other stipulated. He only felt reassured when he heard the clinking of cups and spoons just outside the store. A ghost of a grin on his face as he walked away.

* * *

><p>"Ron," Harry greeted upon slipping out the roof top door. His face twisted, fooled once again by expecting fresh air and his nose breathing in the overwhelming stench of rot. He missed gagging upon encountering that odor; that way at least he wasn't getting used to it. Harry didn't know how his friend could stand it, spending so much time out here.<p>

Feet away from his friend's set up, he paused and sniffed. "What is that smell?"

"Andy," Ron murmured, not taking his concentration off the chessboard before him. When he didn't immediately continue, Harry came closer and watched as Ron decisively moved his white knight and took a pawn. Then he went onto scribble his move on the whiteboard. "Think he lost it a bit last night and put together some Molotov cocktails. Told him he was a bloody moron." He shrugged and hoisted the sign over his head. "There's twice as more of those things down there today."

Harry carefully peered over the edge and saw a crowd of decaying flesh at least forty bodies deep. Underneath the bright sun, it wasn't difficult to distinguish those who had been spared the homemade bombs and those who hadn't. Charred black and staggering about as if they weren't missing half their bodies, mixing with the virtually untouched, and stepping on carcasses fallen and unmoving. Definitely not inferi. He wanted to vomit, but moved away before he did.

"So… how're you?"

Squinting through the binoculars confiscated from Dudley, Ron's shoulders pulled into another shrug and that was it. Harry held back a sigh and went to sit by his friend in a lawn chair of his own. The redhead had been short with him ever since he'd tried to leave and Harry wouldn't let him. Harry couldn't have let him. It was a suicide mission. Not very Gryffindor of him, yes, but they had barely managed to make it where they are now. He couldn't risk losing anyone else, especially his best friend.

It pained him that he didn't know where Hermione, the Weasleys, Teddy, and Andromeda were -if they were even still alive- but there was truly nothing he could do about it. It's not as if he could leave; the building was surrounded. No, Harry would just have to be the optimistic one. Andromeda and the Weasleys both lived out in the countryside. Less populated. Maybe whatever's happening wouldn't reach them. He'd have to keep thinking that way and wait for the perfect opportunity to rescue them.

And Harry couldn't do that if his best mate was being so cold to him. He spent most of his time up here, playing chess with Andy and rarely socializing with anyone else, not even George who was a cause for concern all his own. Ron would sit amongst the stench and groaning till nightfall when his new Muggle friend would turn in, since they had no light to communicate by. One night Harry had spied him staring intently after a silver Jack Russel Terrier darting between solid shadows -some chasing after the glowing canine- and disappearing into a black horizon. As far as Harry knew, the patronus never returned with a response. Harry had tried himself, but the proud stag had dissipated into a white vapor, fading with every body it fearlessly plowed through. Absorbed. He couldn't believe it, so he didn't and focused on other things.

Like feeding and looking after everyone. If Hermione were here -his chest panged with a loss his adopted optimism wouldn't acknowledge- she would probably have a theory about his sudden caregiving nature spawning from his childhood and how everyone dealt with stressful situations differently, and Harry was simply retrogressing to the unfair role he'd been forced into as a child when living with the Dursleys -something safe and familiar and so easy to get lost in- and he needed something to control; she would deliver it all matter of fact with cited book references. He wasn't going to deny the truth in it; he'd already thought of it so some part of him agreed, but it made him sound selfish. That his volunteered kindness wasn't all that altruistic, a quaint distraction from the realities just outside. Someone had to do it after all, and none of the others seemed all that keen to.

Tucker's leg had healed for the most part, but the old female trucker, Norma, still hung around him under the pretense of looking after him. Harry usually saw them together, debating truck models or laughing over on-the-road anecdotes with steaming cups of Irish coffee in hand. He wasn't sure if they even slept.

But the easy friendship in such a trying situation at the same time warmed him yet made him slightly jealous.

Ron continued on with his long distance game across the crawling parking lot. Harry wondered if he'd forgotten he was there or was ignoring him.

Then there was Parkinson and Zabini who went beyond the realm of being friends and were shagging like there was no tomorrow, and maybe there wouldn't be, or maybe they were bored and needed something to pass the time. Exploring the foreign, Muggle environment apparently didn't hold much interest for them.

That and their grieving friend.

It disgusted Harry and he wasn't in the mood to piss himself off again, so he moved on.

Nicole, sixteen years-old and recently orphaned, had spent the first few days closed away like Malfoy, but Terry -when he wasn't gawking over Harry- was a nice enough bloke and lured her out of it. Being teenagers, they naturally kept to themselves, hanging out in random areas of the mall and whispering to each other at meal times. It was obvious she was still deeply mourning her family, Harry having had accidentally come across her sobbing into Terry's shoulder while he held her with a conflicted twist on his narrow face, one firm with determination to console her and appearing just as lost. She never spoke a word to Harry or Ron but settled for watery, hate-filled glares at them. He was sure if Malfoy was around, he'd receive the same treatment. Harry didn't blame her, but it concerned Terry enough that he was always quick to distract her with a joke or question. Harry had even seen them holding hands.

When Terry wasn't with Nicole, that small margin of the day was checking the generator or taking food to Dudley and Piers locked up in their mall security cell. Harry didn't care to see his cousin and had no intention of releasing them. Things were relatively peaceful, and he didn't fully believe his cousin had calmed down as he had claimed and wasn't planning on killing everyone in here in order to become the deluded king to his castle. Rage still spiked in Harry whenever he thought of Piers calling Malfoy, "a pretty blond faggot" and the lecherous grin on his ugly face. As far as Harry was concerned they could stay in there indefinitely and as long as Harry prepared extra food for them he couldn't feel guilty about it.

Who actually worried Harry was George and Angelina. Harry rarely if ever saw them. George came by and picked up meals for the two of them but returned immediately to the privacy of the baby store. Harry always made it a point to ask after them, especially Angelina being pregnant in an unfit environment, but George always replied fine, just preparing for the baby. Harry had tried visiting, but the surly redhead always stopped him at the door and told him his wife was either sleeping or feeling under the weather and not up for visitors. Despite his hesitance, he turned around and walked away every time. It wasn't his place to argue, but each time grew harder and harder to resist.

"You talk to George today? … Ron?"

The man in question kept scrutinizing the checkered board with a small frown. "Yeah, sure."

"And how was he?"

Nail-bitten fingers brushed against a piece and curled away in second thought. "Who?"

"George, your brother." Impatience sharpened his words into a fine point, and he had to bite the meaty inside of his cheek before snapping and stabbing his friend just to draw some attention away from that damn game.

"Oh, uh, he's fine," Ron answered distractedly before suddenly grinning and moving his queen, then knocking over the opposing king. With that smug bend of his lips, he scrawled his win and asked if his new best mate wanted to play another game.

With a slam of the door, Harry was gone before the board pieces were reset.

* * *

><p>The reality was everyone was pairing up, and Harry was on the outside looking in. He didn't particularly like the lack of over all unity, but it was what it was. When he wasn't cooking, he was entertaining himself with books from the bookstore and exercising just to get the energy out; and when he wasn't doing that, he was wandering aimlessly checking the first floor doors and windows and drifting through the blurry fringes of the peripheries of others. A shaggy-haired ghost who kept them well-fed. Something definitely could be said for growing up isolated then thrust into the spotlight where making friends was a careful process, because he felt socially awkward. Stilted. He felt like he was back in primary school where everyone came in unbreakable pairs and, even if Dudley wasn't around to scare anyone, Harry wouldn't dare to intrude. It seemed rude and unfair to even try. After losing family and friends in one day; people needed that connection to another human being.<p>

And… and Harry could do without if it meant everyone else was relatively happy.

There were two others drifting through it all, Malfoy (an antisocial given) and an older gentleman named, Glenn. Polite, uncommonly attentive, short, white horseshoe balding, a bit thick in the middle, with twinkling eyes that reminded Harry of Dumbledore. He was always quick to volunteer to help clean up, and their conversations were amicable but took great effort on Harry's part. Harry learned the man had been the organist at his local church for the past thirty five years, lived alone except for a pet parakeet named, Thaddeus, whom he hoped found a way out of his cage and knew to fly south for the winter, and adored the musical stylings of Miss Lavern Baker, among other -uh- interesting tidbits. For a muggle, he sure was intent on learning about the famous hero he couldn't know about: Harry's work, his hobbies, family, friends, his life in general. Harry mostly gave him short-answer lies. Magic was too integrated in his life, and he was a relatively private person regardless. He wasn't about to divulge to a stranger while washing dishes no matter how lonely he was.

Harry knew beggars can't be choosers, but the older man just didn't sit right with him. For awhile he couldn't put his finger on why exactly, a culmination of things: The grinning interrogations; sweating profusely when it wasn't even hot; twinkling eyes illuminating thoughts that didn't match the words coming out of his mouth; crossing paths more than could just be coincidence; and once Harry had accidentally glanced through the wrong shoe store window and saw Glenn with his pant leg rolled up, beige hosiery drooping off his calf and modeling a spiked, red heel in the mirror. To each his own, but Harry tended to steer clear of him after that.

More and more lately he'd been finding himself outside of Malfoy's store, peeking in on him or sitting in his own quarters and staring up at it from his vantage point. Harry didn't even want to start to think about trying to explain why. It was easier just to give into instinct and save himself the headache. There was enough wrong with the way things were, he didn't need to add teenage angst on top of that.

But when he heard the panicked yelling echoing down the large corridor, he ran straight towards it.

* * *

><p>Just as Draco was feeling ambitious enough to start nibbling on the cooled toast, the chain link gate was rattling and an odd anticipation was overpowering the hunger in his gut.<p>

"Back so soon? See, look I'm eating this disgusting fare like a good little wizard." He mockingly waved the bit of bread over his shoulder.

"Pansy'll be absolutely beside herself." Draco whipped his head around to see Blaise strolling in like he did it everyday. The natural backlighting -and damn Potter for banishing his darkness- painted his friend all in shadow. It'd been so long since Draco had seen him. He'd sort of forgotten they shared the same building, and it was just on the other side of jarring for him to appear now.

"Blaise," he acknowledged in an unconcerned drawl. If the other man's front was nothing but shadow to his eyes than Draco must be well-lit in contrast. Earlier he'd managed to change his clothes but since it had only been Potter -the epitome of unkempt- he hadn't bothered with much else since Draco would always look a thousand times better even on his worst days. Days like today, but the sudden appearance of his outrageously handsome, dark-skinned friend made him more aware of his pasty and neglected looks. It took all of his self control to take a measured sip of his tea instead of shoving away a lock of dirty hair clinging to his forehead.

"What brings you here?"

Wandering to a rack and taking his sweet time examining a silk, cobalt tie, Blaise eventually replied with a shrug. "Just thought I'd drop by and see how one of my oldest and dearest friends is fairing. So…" He straightened, discomfort flashing over his bland expression when he set his eyes upon Draco. "H-how are you fairing?"

"Brilliantly," Draco enunciated dryly, carefully setting aside the paper cup. It was an insult to his very existence to be served with anything but fine china, and he was quite certain that that was the reason why the tea tasted especially horrid. Blaise's "concern" simply added to the flat flavor soaking into his tongue.

A closely shaved head nodded slowly, tipping back to take in the suits meticulously arranged on the walls. "Great to hear."

The ire prickling just beneath his calm mask lanced its way through by the sneer contorting his lip. "Now that the surface pleasantries are out of the way, why are you really here? Has Pansy grown tired of you between her legs?"

Miscalculation paved the way to a vainglorious smirk. "Close. She's asleep or passed out more like." Blaise's unapologetic attitude of abandoning Draco to go shag dug at tender aches of rejection in his gut, though Draco wouldn't show it bothered him as much as it did. Enough things did already. Out of school and still a pureblood Slytherin to the end, as was the wizard before him.

"All fucked out yet here you are. Is that a coincidence?" Draco asked with a bored, forced yawn.

Blaise ducked his head in a coy gesture which was ruined by the smug quirk of his lips. "You know me so well."

"An unfortunate side effect of having grown up with you."

"You wound me, but, yes, there's that and… other things." His voice deepened. He slid onto the edge of the bed. Draco shifted uncomfortably, snatching up his tea so the new weight of depression wouldn't upset it. Dark, predatory eyes fixed on him. A lecherous grin. When a nearly full bottle of amber liquid came into view, it all clicked and all Draco wanted to do was break the glass over the bastard's head.

Draco's eyes were squeezed shut in some delusive attempt to keep his temper in check. "If you value your bits, you'll vacate my eyesight immediately."

"Aw, come now, I want to help you feel better and what better way to do that than-"

"The healing power of your prick up my arse while absolutely pissed out of my mind."

"You make it sound so crude and artless. Try to have a little fun, will you." Blaise shook his head with complete pity.

And despite everything, Draco rather die than have someone's pity. Malfoys are to be respected, feared, and admired -resented, perhaps because there was bound to be some that are jealous- but never _pitied_. Enough had been taken from him; at least leave him his pride- and over something like this no less. Didn't Blaise understand all that was taken from him? Normal now was days comprised of this bed, self-loathing, and a sharp dagger of loss tipped with acid carving names into his chest, the furious sadness burning away the flesh and sternum and untying his ribs so the cage would crack open like a clam, finding lungs and a curdling heart instead of pearls.

As anyone could see, Draco had a lot of time to paint a picture of his pain; it was easier than focusing on the source.

"… you really think you can help?"

Lackluster grey traced the crescent of perfect teeth slashed across the dark face, Blaise smiling as if in triumph. "Darling, if you have to ask…" Long fingers reached out and brushed away the irritating fringe hanging over Draco's eyes.

It was truly a testament to his exhaustion when his anger didn't manifest itself in a static energy storm like it had been doing as of late. Even though he wanted to shout Blaise's stupidly grinning face into utter devastation -just so he would feel as bad as Draco- he was so tired of feeling this way. It hurt all the time, and if he didn't have some sort of relief soon...

Maybe just a few hours of being numb would be alright.

"Let's get you cleaned up." Blaise's playful leer drew him from his thoughts and caused him to stiffen further when gentle tugging splashed drops of cold tea onto his hand.

"No."

"Dray, dear, come on. You don't know what you want."

"Don't call me that, and I don't want what you're offering," Draco spat, yanking himself out of the other man's hold. His intentions forced his eyes low in shame so the wilting corners of his fellow Slytherin's grin went unnoticed by him. "Just leave the bottle."

"Draco-"

"The arrangement we had in the past ended with Sc- … Scorpius' birth, you know that." Hot tears glazed his eyes, and he shut them at the unstoppable cracking of his voice. "… now _please, leave me alone."_

A minute stretched on in strained silence. Blaise stood over his friend, watching him struggle with dark, serious eyes. His hand hovered over the blond's imperceptibly shaking shoulder.

Even though his intentions were far from pure, Blaise did want to help Draco feel better, even for a little while. This outright rejection of his advances was foreign and puzzling. No, he wouldn't condescend by claiming he knew even a fraction of what the other man was feeling. He'd never lost anyone of great importance to him; he'd been too young to remember his father and the parade of stepfathers after that had become routine; Blaise's mother -he supposed she was a literal man eater now- could be compared to an ache years in the making. He didn't know the pain of losing a child; that would involve settling down.

To be honest, he had always sort of resented Scorpius, not the boy himself -he was an amusing spitfire the few times Blaise had met him- but him being born so bloody fast. The arranged marriage and obligatory heir were things they expected but they had agreed beforehand it wouldn't disrupt their own carnal fun. Blaise had discreetly visited the manor frequently during Astoria's pregnancy, but as the due date drew more and more near Draco had invited him over less and less until that fateful day came and the new father ended things between them. A small blip in his track record of conquests. Blaise had never been want for company, so this clear dismissal was confusing to him. Sex fixed everything, and if Draco didn't want that then… he had no idea how to help.

That horrifically impotent thought in mind, a decision was made.

His empty hand retreated as the other moved forward, placing the bottle in a nestle of sheets next to his friend. Straightening his posture, he felt like he should say something; Zabinis were never short of pretty words, but in this one instance something sincere needed to be said and he had nothing. So instead he coughed lightly into his fist, moved to pat the quiet blond on the back but thought better of it, and decided to leave swiftly out of distinct discomfort.

Out in the large, sunlit hall he could breathe again. He hoped Pansy was awake… and it wouldn't hurt if she was willing. The last he heard before walking away entirely was the precise twisting of a cap followed by desperate chugging.

* * *

><p>Hours later Harry was fighting to stay awake. Almost dead on his feet, and in his tired mind the euphemism made him snicker. Memories of where he'd just been and what he'd been doing sobered him up quick though. His head ached, feeling as if he were in a daze, and before he knew it he realized his legs had carried him to the second floor, the men's formal apparel shop. He paused just feet before the entrance. He should just turn around and go downstairs to his own bed and sleep just like his body was screaming at him to do, but instead he ended up pressing onward. He needed to just be around another person, even if it was a virtually unresponsive Malfoy.<p>

What Harry was expecting and what was, were two very different things.

The lights were on for one, and another was-

"Scarhead!" Malfoy cheerily greeted in a loud voice from his usual spot on the bed. Slouching against the headboard, his sallow face lit up with such a bright smile Harry halted in uncertainty.

Drawing closer he carefully replied, "Malfoy..."

"Fancy a drink?" A bottle was thrust into Harry's face, the third of its amber contents sloshing against the insides. The pungent aroma curled the fine hairs of his nostrils and caused him to gag. Turning his face away, his fingertips gently pushed it back. Eventually getting the message, Malfoy's arm -bottle and all- fell limply to his lap.

"Suit yourself then." Two heavy gulps followed his slurred, nonchalant words, liquid dribbled from a corner of his puckered, pink mouth. Tired green eyes most certainly were not watching Malfoy's long, pale throat and the rhythmic bobbing of his Adams apple.

"Where did the alcohol come from?"

"Blaise," the drunk wizard exclaimed with a happy sigh, and Harry had to taper down an inexplicable stab of irritation at that. "Randy wanker came, came by earlier. I wasn't up for a shag... well, you see." He chuckled and danced his fingers around the bottle's rim. "I thought it was you at first, come to bom- bombard me with more dry toast- and the tea, Potty! Whose bathwater did you mix the leaves with? No, no, I bet you used those nasty, little bags!" His smile matched his expression as his third year's Welcoming Feast when he taunted Harry for feinting on the train; exactly the same but different. The face was more mature and the laugh lines around his mouth gave the once hated expression a certain openness Harry found terribly gratifying in his sleep-deprived mind. Malfoy must have laughed a lot these past few years. "It has to be said that this fine brew did the job waaaay better."

"'The 'job' was to keep you healthy, not get you pissed out of your mind," Harry sighed, pushing his glasses high on his forehead as he rubbed his bleary eyes.

And just like that, Malfoy's smile sharpened and became cruel, despite the slight slurs that were about to spill from it. "Oh my sincerest apologies, Potter," he crooned. "Not all of us have rainbows and public adoration to keep our chins up; us, mere mortals, need a little something extra to get our sorry selves through the day. Alas, tea and toast don't soothe the soul quite like they used to."

Pressing a trembling fist against his pursed lips, tepid green gazed steadily at a goofily sneering Malfoy, obviously pleased with himself that he'd said all that coherently. Harry had to convince himself it would be a bad idea to smack him. With that mostly accomplised, he pulled his fist away with a sharp inhale. "... Can you guess where I was before I came here?"

"Circle-jerking with Weasleys?"

"No, you fucking-" Harry stopped himself and carefully scrubbed a hand over his mouth. His eyes flickered to the side and settled on a gleaming display of tie clips without really seeing it. Then he found himself speaking without consciously deciding to. His voice flat. Dead.

"Nicole, the girl with her father..."

The amused crinkle to Malfoy's lips fell into a straight line.

"I thought she was doing relatively well, considering. She at least found a friend in Terry. But today... she, um, she overdosed on some pills she found in some employee's locker. She would've died if it hadn't been for Terry. I-..." The stench of vomit still clung to his clothes. He had scourgified his hands, having alternated the pruny digits shoving them down the limp girl's throat. He had left the teenage wizard alone to watch over the now peacefully sleeping girl.

"... Not a particularly awful idea, that."

Harry's glazed eyes cleared and focused sharply onto Malfoy. "What?" he bit out.

The other man's shoulder fell in an inelegant shrug. "Offing yourself is probably the most logical route at this point, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I wouldn't-"

"I mean, everyone's fucking dead anyways," Malfoy's words broke down into a humorless laugh. "It makes sense to end it before some rabid stranger makes a meal of you. Smart thing on the orphan chit's part."

As Malfoy said this, Harry's jaw locked and his frame shook with barely suppressed, incredulous rage. Did Malfoy notice this, of course not. He was too busy idly dipping his finger into the bottle's mouth. He looked up suddenly with a perturbed pout on his face. "Where's Blaise? Potty, go be a dear and fetch Blaise."

"Why?" Harry reluctantly ground out.

"Because you're actually quite depressing in civil conversation, and Blaise could still be up for more... spirit-lifting activities.."

"Spirit-lifting activities? Like what, a shag?"

Malfoy, once again shrugged.

Harry's mouth wrenched open in a soundless snarl. "I- ... I tell you all this and you're what, _horny_ now?"

Another shrug. Malfoy's face was drawn, the farthest example of aroused.

By now whatever pleasant buzz Draco had had dissolved under Potter's bright anger. Draco hoped if he ticked Potter off enough while expelling as little energy as possible -because the idea of moving didn't quite agree with the vague churning creeping up his gullet- then the bespectaled nuisance would leave. Simple as that... or perhaps not.

His woozy thoughts kept circling back to the muggle girl. At least she had the bullocks to do what he'd been thinking about for what felt like forever, even though the debillitating agony of losing Scorpius was just as fresh as yesterday. He didn't know what "pills" were, but he knew full well what "overdose" meant so that must make them a medication of some sort. He could imagine all kinds of ways to end it all, but he knew the extent of his own cowardice. Self-peservation wouldn't allow him to die by his own hand no matter how much he loathed himself for it.

Fuck. He had been wonderfully numb before Potter arrived -downright chipper almost- and now all he felt was the usual.

"Potter, will you please just-" His voice hitched, and he could feel the tightening in his chest. Draco couldn't have the other man -his bloody childhood rival, of all people- here for this. "Just _go_."

"Oh why yes, of course, Malfoy!" The auror bared his teeth in what could have been a smile. "Shall I go _fetch_ Zabini then or do you want me to bring along Parkinson too and you all can have a jolly three-way romp? Never mind that a girl almost killed herself tonight or we're all trapped here while the world outside's gone straight to Hell-"

"I get it. Stop."

"Nevermind everyone, like you said, is fucking dead and walking around and eating each other or-or that once again everyone is looking to me for answers, answers I bloody don't have. Never mind that-"

"Stop, Potter."

"My best friend fucking hates me, because I wouldn't let him get himself killed and I don't know how much longer I can take care of everyone else and act like everything's going to be all right-"

"Potter, please!"

"When it's so obvious it's not but never-fucking-mind all that because Draco Malfoy's drunk and looking to get off with Zabini's scaly prick!"

"STOP IT!" The near empty bottle crashed into a well-dressed mannequin, only missing the wild-eyed Gryffindor by inches. Draco was lurching off the bed, glaring at him through a quivering sheen of tears.

The jarring sound of shattering glass had snapped Harry out of his rant, forcing him to take in the mutual distress written in severe lines across a normally porcelain face.

"Just shut your damn mouth," spat the blond pureblood. Just then a look of absolute horror crossed over his suddenly green face, and he slapped a hand over his mouth, scrambling around the counter towards the back of the store. Seconds later, Harry could hear the undeniable sound wretching.

The fact that Malfoy was sick made him feel slightly better in light of his recent bout of word vomit and the consequent embarrassment. The crushing pressure on his temples had let up by several degrees, just enough for something just as damaging to fill his head: Remorse had him dragging his feet towards the other man's hacking.

By the time he reached the doorway of the too bright room -the sour smell filling his nose for the second time today- Malfoy's platnium head was rising from the toilet bowl with a low, tortured groan. He sat back on his heels, unbalanced, and kept falling backwards till his back hit the wall with a grunt. His white, tear-clumped lashes stood out crisply against his red cheeks, stark lines of pain riddled his forehead as a lock of hair clung to the sweaty skin. The sight was truly a pitiful one, pitiful enough for Harry to go fetch the abandoned glass on Malfoy's food tray and fill it from the tap.

"Here." Water sloshed over the rim and splattered on Malfoy's lap, not that the other man noticed with his sickly spasms. Harry felt foolish crouching beside a whimpering Malfoy and holding a glass it appeared he wasn't about to take. "Drink some water. It'll help."

His eyes squeezed shut, the spit-slicked line of the Slytherin's mouth pulled into a disgusted knot.

"Malfoy," Harry huffed.

"Piss off," whined the blond in return, turning his head away.

Harry's patience was running thin as he once again cursed Blaise Zabini's existence for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes. He grabbed the recalcitrant man by the pointed chin with his unoccupied hand. "Drink."

The teeth-clenched order didn't come with easy compliance. Malfoy's head whipped back and forth to throw off Harry's hold, and he clawed at the fingers digging into his jaw. His legs kicked out, knocking the glass from Harry's hand, and scrambled unsteadily to his feet.

"You think water'll help?! It isn't going to make it better! Nothing is going to make any of this-" Malfoy's arms gesticulated wildly around him, almost causing him to fall over. "Any of this better!"

Harry remained rooted to the spot, stunned by the Slytherin Prince's silver eyes scarily shining. He really didn't want to be here for this, because he knew the conversation was no longer about the simple remedies to intoxication, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to leave. He blamed the brash stupidity Malfoy always brought out in him.

"You know what will?" Malfoy loomed menacingly over him with shaking fists locked at his sides. His angry scowl rippled with desperation. "A bloody AK to the head; that'll fix this." His hand rubbed over the rumpled material of his shirt where his heart lay layers beneath. "But I can't do it." His face twisted. "I can't do it..."

He looked up, staring absently past Harry's shoulder into the wall. "I'm fucking useless," he whispered with such acceptance that Harry felt an answering hollowness in himself. "I can't." He blinked then dragged his unfocused gaze onto the Gryffindor. "But you could."

"What" murmured Harry in a lifeless tone, but Malfoy's head was already bobbing in avid agreement with his mad idea. He dropped unexpectedly to his knees, barely wincing at the crack they made against the tile.

"Yes... yes, you could do it, couldn't you, Potter? I'm sure you've offed plenty of Death Eaters, just- just one more? I've bet you've been itching to get rid of me since we were eleven."

"Malfoy... I can't. I won't."

"Please!" Long fingers tangled in the collar of Harry's shirt and pulled. "You have to! It doesn't have to be an Unforgivable if that's what's stopping you. It could be like in sixth year." Those whiskey-drenched words were like a cold slap to his face. "You could finish the job, yeah?"

"You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying."

Tears rolled into the hopeful, upturned corners of Malfoy's mouth. "I do! I do! Please, Potter, please, I'm not asking for much."

_Only to end you and shred apart my soul more._ Harry grimaced. He didn't know who this was anymore. To be fair, he never really knew Malfoy to begin with, at least not farther than narrow-eyed observations, their shouting matches, gossip, and Harry's own inferences, but he always thought he knew enough. Enough to know Malfoy was a survivor by whatever means necessary. He remembered the blond's splintered porcelain features glowing amongst cursed fire, his hands reaching out for him, begging for life and now... Now it was quite the opposite.

The stubborn, arrogant, unbreakable Malfoy -the boy who acted as if the seas should part for him and the gods should bow to him- was this hysterical, broken man pleading for Harry to kill him. To put him down like a dog. The world may had ended and things had no choice but to change, but it didn't mean gits like Malfoy could take away the smallest bit of stability Harry had. That knowledge, above everything else, struck him the hardest. A lump swelled in his throat -the size of a snitch- choking him.

"Please, Potter!" Spittle sprayed his face and before he realized it his wand was in his hand, digging into Malfoy's chest. Green stared sadly into bloodshot silver.

The whisper slipped barely audible from his lips. "_Stupefy_."

_Take away a man's son, and you've truly given him nothing to lose._

-Zombieland

TBC

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><p>What's this? An update?! Holy hell... If anyone is still reading this, I'm sorry and bless you, you beautiful soul. I hope this is okay. LOVE<p> 


	10. Just Words

Disclaimer: I do not own anything from the HP world, nor Dawn of the Dead. No profit is being made.

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><p><strong>X. Just Words<strong>

Malfoy didn't begin to stir until early afternoon the following day. Harry knew this, because he had stayed with him all night, had even moved the prat to his bed. _By hand_, he might add, since his Levitation charm had spontaneously failed halfway through, and if anyone asked, Harry would deny laughing when the Pureblood snot dropped to the floor with a pained, unconscious grunt.

He'd sat on the counter beside the rumpled king-sized bed, trying (and failing) at juggling cufflinks and holding the rubbish bin for Malfoy the few times he awoke long enough to dry heave then go limp with a whimper. During those sporadic intervals, Harry had done a great deal of thinking. He came to the conclusion that he didn't know shite about anything anymore, especially when it came to...

A messy white blonde head emerged from beneath the covers, followed immediately by a deep, tortured whine. Harry watched as long arms and legs moved listlessly from out under the blankets and back until they arranged in a way that he was able to flip onto his back with a pathetic groan.

Malfoy _would_ be a whiny bitch when he was hungover.

Training pinched eyes on the ceiling for long minutes, the sound of Malfoy's concentrated deep breathing was the only sound that filled the store. Harry had unthinkingly stilled at the first signs of the other man's consciousness, and his own quiet breaths went unnoticed by the lump not more than a few feet away. From this angle, he watched as blank gray became more aware and softened under the welling of tears. Harry quickly looked away and coughed to make his presence known. It felt inherently wrong seeing such a silent display of despair, especially from Malfoy.

If the Pureblood was surprised or embarrassed by his being there, he didn't show it. He merely stared at Harry, unfazed, like he could lay with his eyes as tired slits and let the world blur in and out. Harry was a bit entranced himself with the notion to do the same -it would be so much easier- but something in him -the Gryffindor part of him, whatever necessary traits that made him the "Chosen One," or simply being alive- he knew he couldn't do that.

"Come on." He hopped down from the counter and circled the other side of the bed. "It's late and people will be wanting to eat. You should help me."

"I'm not a house elf," came softly but defiantly behind him.

Harry's lips twitched into an almost grin. "Well, at the moment we're fresh out of house elves so we'll have to fend for ourselves. Give it a try; you might enjoy it."

Draco forced his head deeper into the pillow and scowled, stubbornly clinging to the heaviness of his limbs as an excuse not to move. He wasn't a servant; Potter didn't own him; Potter could just shove off.

Steadfast in his metaphorical stand, he jerked off the bed with a squawk, reeling under the unexpected rush of magic that stripped layers of dirt from his body and left his skin fiercely tingling. Sore, itchy eyes flashed quicksilver at his grinning childhood rival and the wand in his hand.

"Fucking hell! Do you realize how bloody invasive that is?" he spat.

Potter -the prat- just shrugged and twirled his wand. "I figured trying to get you to bathe would be more trouble than it was worth. We're trying to ration food, and I can't have people losing their meal because they got a whiff of you. I'll leave you to shave and clean your teeth if that's any consolation."

Breath hissed in and out through Draco's bared teeth, mindful of the sour layer of scum coating gum and enamel. Maybe Potter did have a point, but he didn't have act so damn superior cocking his brow like that. Draco wasn't a child.

"You may be accustomed to your army of sycophants jumping to follow your orders, but I'm not one of your soft-headed lemmings. Piss off!" But when he tried to turn around and return to his bed, his feet refused to budge and he almost fell. "Cute," he sneered. Purple eyelids squeezed shut in concentration as he focused his will with a _Finite_.

Aiming a tired smirk at Potter, he took a step back to show how easily his soles came away from the floor. "You're not the only one who knows a few tricks."

_So I've noticed_, Harry thought, equal parts impressed with the shows of wandless magic and disappointed with Malfoy's bull-faced resistance. "But-"

Malfoy threw up his arms. "Why are you trying so hard? What do you want from me?"

"I-" Harry froze, being put on the spot and asked the one question he'd been asking himself. His lips parted but nothing came out.

"Well?" the other man snapped, arms crossed and shocking Harry even more by the fact Malfoy wanted an answer, was actually _waiting_ for one.

"Because..." He dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it more than a mess than his all-nighter had left it. The answer that came to mind wasn't the one he wanted to say, not to a person known to prey on weakness. His useless mouth twitched into a rueful grin, and he told Malfoy what he wanted to hear. "I'm Harry Potter, remember? I have to play hero and save everyone. Even stubborn prats like you."

The familiarity of that statement surprisingly settled some of the tension thrumming through the Pureblood's frame. It reminded him of a different place and time and a hatred that made him feel strong and an envy that kept him distracted. Tilting his head, slate gray studied Potter. He would have happily believed that answer a day ago. "... always the Savior then. Lucky me."

"Yep, lucky you." Harry bobbed his head, fighting the blush creeping up his cheeks from Malfoy's slow appraisal. It was all he could do to stifle his surprise when the ex-Slytherin strode past him towards the exit.

"I suppose it would be good charity on my part if I reminded the last fools on Earth what proper tea actually tasted like and not the nasty swill you're been no doubt slowly poisoning them with. Now which way is the salon? I need more mirrors."

Gobsmacked, Harry remained rooted to his spot and simply stared after him.

"Oh, and Potty?" Malfoy whirled around and jabbed a finger in his face. "If any muggle or Weasel come near me or so much as breathe in my direction, I can not be held accountable for my actions."

Harry swallowed. "Like what?"

Despite bruised eyes and cracked lips, the blond's smile was cheerfully malicious. "I'll leave that up to your imagination."

The sudden closeness was startling for all the wrong reasons."Fair enough," Harry murmured and relaxed as soon as Malfoy turned away.

It was also fair enough that if Malfoy was going to play along and pretend Harry didn't want to admit his loneliness then he would pretend last night and Malfoy's desperate, tear-streaked face didn't happen.

* * *

><p>Needless to say heads turned when Malfoy made that first appearance at lunch. Looking thin and exhausted but immaculate, he ignored the curious looks and Parkinson's shocked gasp and strutted past with a stiffness and blankness a statue would be envious of. He didn't help Harry prepare anything, instead he instructed him from his perch on the counter top, barking criticisms while picking at his nails, and shooting wary glances at the appliances that surrounded him. His jaw ticking, Harry continued his work without rising to the bait; cooking and vitriol comprised most of his childhood so it was nothing he wasn't used to. And besides Malfoy's voice lacked the snottiness that used to grate on Harry and half his comments came off as bored after thoughts like he'd remember he had to stay in character.<p>

Once everything was finished and people helped themselves to the small mountain of sandwiches -minus the tea Malfoy never made- Harry sat down for his own meal off to the side from where everyone else convened. He tuned out the murmurs of conversation while munching idly on a cheese sandwich of bread heels, his bespectacled eyes following the blond Pureblood wandering around the food court. Curious gray peeked around corners and read strange menus -pink lips moving and nose wrinkling- all the while studiously ignoring his two friend's efforts on snagging his attention. Harry had to hide his own vindictive smirk behind a napkin at the cold treatment. Serves those snakes right.

As the meal drew to a close, one by one tired thank yous were said to Harry and he responded with awkward nods; it really was the least he could do. Glen lingered as usual acting positively beside himself with Harry's "caring nature."

"Truly, thanks again, Harry. Everything was delicious as always-"

"Oh please," Malfoy snorted, appearing out of nowhere and dropping into the seat across from the auror. "Yes, because slapping two slices of bread together is a very complicated process and ingesting it, a holy experience when performed by the Chosen One."

Confusion riddled the older man's forehead all the way up to his bald scalp. "'Chosen One'?"

"Ignore him," Harry gritted out.

Despite the dark circles, Malfoy's gray irises practically twinkled.

Making a decision, Harry stood and leaned over, strong-arming the Slytherin out of his chair. "If you'll excuse us, Glen." Malfoy surprisingly didn't put up much of a fight, obediently rising to his feet still wearing that damnable smirk. Perhaps dragging the arrogant git out of his suit store wasn't his best idea.

"But Harry." The old man reached out like he was going to grab hold of him but thought better of it. "Where are you going? We always clean up together."

"Um, could you please take care of it? Just this once?"

"But what about Ron and George and Angelina and those guards, who's going to feed them?"

Agitation prickled across his shoulder blades, made worse by Malfoy's snickering. "Well who would have predicted the _Great Harry Potter_ would become Armageddon's favorite house elf?"

Harry squeezed his arm tighter in warning, feeling the sinewy muscle under his fingers. "Could you take care of it? If not, they are all adults. I'm sure they can handle feeding themselves."

Glen's watery blue gaze drifted from the hold Harry had on the platinum-haired man up to pleading green, where they softened. "Sure, of course." He smiled weakly.

"Thanks," Harry tossed over his shoulder, already tugging Malfoy away. They had barely gotten out of hearing range before the blond burst into mocking laughter.

"Oh, Scarhead, I do believe that sweaty geezer fancies you. Won't he be heartbroken when he finds out about the She-Weasel?"

The auror drug them both into the nearest store which happened to be a scented candle shop. The air was sweet and cloying. He swung his laughing enemy ahead and released him.

"You can't go around spouting off about our world in front of Muggles. You bloody know better than that."

"So what? That Hogwarts Express much pretty much left the station. I believe the masses of reanimated corpses outside tipped them off plenty about our world."

"But as an Auror, I have to uphold the Statute-"

"Potter, listen to yourself!" Malfoy gesticulated with an embittered laugh. "There is no more Statute. For Salazar's sake, you're still speaking as if this whole thing is going to blow over. Newsflash, Potter, there is no going back to the way things were. So a muggle hears a couple of 'funny' words? Sooner or later, that's all they'll be: just words."

By the end of the other wizard's rant, an uneasiness began to build up in him. "... what are you saying?"

Elegant features twisted. "You can't honestly be that thick. You haven't figured it out yet? You can't feel it?"

Harry stood there, at a loss.

Gray eyes rolled in their sockets. "And you're the moron that saved us. Try and rub two of the remaining brain cells left in that bird's nest head of yours together and think. There are no wards yet none of us can Apparate; Spells are weak; Hexes are exhausting and only work if they're destructive; Even your corrective vision charm which is supposed to be permanent has faded.

"Whatever those things are is a product of someone in our world's fuck up. They're not just feasting on flesh, they're feeding off our magic and soon..." He stopped, his expression falling as if he too were digesting these thoughts for the first time. "Soon there won't be any magic left."

Pursed lips split apart in a harsh cackle. "We're already being eaten alive and we'll die fucking squibs, the lot of us. Sort of poetic, don't you think?"

Glassy green eyes stared hard at the ground for dragging minutes. His heart cowering in his throat as his lungs forgot how to take in air for one hitching breath. Ever since he was eleven and discovered magic was real, he'd finally found his place in a new and wondrous world that filled him with a joy and a rightness, even though he had quickly learned he was still a freak (only a famous one) and magic could cause pain, but not for one second did he ever consider it could be taken from him, that all magic could just vanish. Gone from him, leaving that scrawny orphan with broken glasses and knobby knees behind.

If he focused, he could feel it. A small, horrified gasp left him as he could feel that extra thrumming in his veins wither with each beat of his heart. He grabbed onto his own wrist where his pulse raced, willing the whole process to stop, but it was of no use. Malfoy was right; this was happening and it wasn't going to stop and-

… and he would just have to accept it.

Releasing his wrist like a rusty, spring-trap, he lengthened and steadied his breathing. He straightened his stance and squared his shoulders, looking up at the other man watching him dispassionately. He blinked, clearing his vision as his lashes came away spiked and wet. He could see it behind the pristine mask Malfoy gazed through, the commiserating terror, only deeper, more consuming. Malfoy had had magic all his life; Harry used to be so jealous over this fact, he could almost laugh now. Malfoy never knew any different and to be stripped of something he was raised to be an integral part of himself...

"Right," Harry said and gulped at the same time, forcing down the lump sliding back down to its rightful place in his chest. "Let's, um, go somewhere else. Fucking reeks in here." He jerked his chin, already walking, hoping Malfoy was following. He couldn't stand the mingling scents of peonies, ocean breeze, pumpkin spice, and who knew what else coming together and giving him a headache any longer. At least that's what he told himself.

"Where are we going?" Malfoy fell into step with him, cautiously watching from the corner of his eye, his tone only slightly suspicious.

Harry loosened the tight hinges of his jaw and replied, "I want to show you something."

Responding with only a sneer, Draco figured he had no other choice but to follow. His mind too absorbed with Potter's reaction, shaken by it even. Potter had faced down the Dark Lord and hadn't appeared even slightly nervous. Draco had just witnessed Potter scared, a sight he assumed he'd always relish, but he didn't. He loathed it, because if Potter -Mr. Almighty Brave Gryffindor- was frightened, then Draco had won because he was the one that was right and they were all going to die, literally powerless to stop it, and maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing.

"Here we are," Potter announced with bland thoroughfare. Draco pulled himself from the downward spiral of his thoughts and looked around him, instantly confused.

"What sort of place is 'here' exactly?"

"Muggle sports equipment shop," he replied like that actually answered Draco's question.

It was unlike any sports shop that Draco had ever seen before. None of the items packed on the shelves made any sense to him as to how they would fit together for a game, but asking wasn't much of an option, not if he wanted his upbringing thrown in his face like a nasty glob of sanctimonious spit so he remained silent and followed the other man down an aisle towards the back. Shelves and stands had been shoved aside to make space for what exactly he wasn't quite sure.

"Resorted to building your own friends, I see," he commented, eying the small congregation of mannequins arranged along the wall. Their stripped bodies and blank faces were splattered with neon colors of the rainbow.

The pursed line of Potter's lips cracked open into a crooked grin, and he shrugged. "They're for target practice." He strolled away from his garish targets over to a table and fiddled with the objects he had spread out on it. Curious, Draco followed and peered over Potter's shoulder, smirking at the fact he was still taller and ignoring that haunting scent of spring rain. He watched as hands smoothly turned over a black monstrosity with a long nose and a bulbous head filled with bright blue spheres.

Potter spun back around and held it out to him. "Here." When Draco made no move to take it, Potter sighed and grabbed him by the hand, forcing him to hold it. "It's not accurate to the real thing, but you'll get the feel for it at least. Also it's a decent way to pass the time."

"... what is _it_?"

"A paintball gun. Here, turn around." Potter lifted the "gun" higher into Draco's hands and excitedly turned him by the shoulders so they faced the mannequins a good distance away. Draco was pliant as callused fingers placed one of his hands under the long nose - "The barrel," Potter explained- and the other around the handle, pulling one finger around "the trigger." Draco listened in a bit of a daze, bemused by the casual touches that tingled along his skin. Potter apparently woke up from his eager whirlwind of instructions and the soft manipulations of Draco's hold and realized who he was touching and talking to, his hands snapping back and his face going strained.

He took a step back, raking a hand through his bird's nest hair. "Just give it a shot."

Draco just stood there with his hands awkward claws around the paintball gun. "Potter, somewhere between you placing this thing in my hands and your truly riveting explanations, you've failed to enlighten me as to what the bloody point of this is."

"Oh, um... I figured it'd be good for you to learn how to handle Muggle weapons since magic is..." He trailed off then shook his head. "Sorry, never mind, this is stupid." He went to take the gun back, but Draco held tight.

"You dragged me all the way here. I might as well try out this silly thing. If a muggle could do it, how difficult could it be?" He sniffed and hefted the gun higher, accidentally squeezing the trigger. A blue spot burst on the floor, making him jump.

Stifling his laughter, Potter nodded and gestured at the mannequins. "My mistake. Please, do continue."

Draco sneered and turned to the very human-shaped targets. Even if the Gryffindor's snickers grated, he could appreciate what Potter was trying to do, teaching him how to defend himself without magic. Surprisingly, Draco felt a little less helpless with the strange weight in his hands. Slowly he took aim, keeping it far from his face, remembering the last time he handled the Weasel's small, silver gun and split his bottom lip wide open. His finger hesitated over the trigger.

Harry watched Malfoy heft the gun up and hold it in front of him with ramrod straight arms. "Stop." He moved behind the blond and reached out, hands hovering and not touching. He was still trying to get over the fresh embarrassment over unthinkingly touching the Slytherin like they were old friends, like previous physical contact hadn't just been shoves and punches. Even though Malfoy didn't say anything, Harry knew he was the only one enjoying the contact more than he should.

"You're too stiff." Careful to only touch the cool plastic of the paintball gun, he guided the butt of it close to Malfoy's all too squared shoulder. "Relax," he muttered, frustrated not with Malfoy but himself. The close proximity was doing _things_ to him, and they weren't things that your childhood enemy should do to you.

"Relax? Easy for you to say. You're not the one whose face is at risk of getting busted open."

"Is that what you're worried about?" He studied the side of Malfoy's face, his narrowed eyes and gritted teeth. The scar slicing his bottom lip was slow to fade even though it had healed. "This doesn't even have a fraction of the kick than a real firearm, so don't worry about that... And besides, you got hurt because you made the mistake of not holding it firm and keeping it too close to that ferret face of yours," he couldn't resist adding. When gray eyes flared in his direction, he flashed an impish smile.

The baiting worked as intended; Malfoy fired and a wet splat landed on the far wall high above the mannequins' heads. Harry clapped as he resisted the urge to cheer outright. It was truly a victory when the Pureblood Prince of Slytherin engages in something thoroughly Muggle.

"Now this time, do that again. Only. Hit one of the targets."

Malfoy huffed and shot again, clipping one of the mannequins off to the far left in the shoulder. The blond turned to him and raised a condescending brow, but the pleased twitching of his pink lips eased his smug expression.

With an answering smirk, Harry jogged to the table and swiped up another loaded paintball rifle then returned back to Malfoy's side where he'd fired off a couple more very slightly more successful shots. Harry fell into the well-practiced stance.

"Remember, it's the head you want to hit."

After a slow breath, blue whizzed between two statue heads and hit the wall. Harry's cheery yellow hit its mark in the shallow dip of an eye. Seeing this, Malfoy's gun drooped to his side and he scowled at the haphazard line up.

"What kind of moron designed these things anyway? Why have these things shoot paint when the real ones actually kill the bloody corpses?"

"Because the paint ones are meant for fun and not to kill."

"Then shouldn't I using the ones that kill?"

Harry snorted, taking aim. "Like I would give a beginner, like you, bullets."

"Well, this recreational simulation could be utterly useless; the difference of weight between these paint spheres and 'bullets' could be throwing off the flight pattern." The Pureblood nodded, convinced of his reasoning.

Harry lowered his gun, flabbergasted. "'Recreational simulation,' 'paint spheres'? Malfoy, who talks like that? Just keep your mouth shut and shoot. I swear if you focused more on the task at hand than bloody arguing-"

The other wizard made an outraged sound, but didn't pursue the string of cutting words poised on the tip of his tongue. After a moment, Malfoy snapped his mouth shut with a click.

At the unprecedented occurrence, Harry's own aggravation fell away. He gulped and put down his gun, coming to a decision.

"Don't hurt me." He committed to his idea, moving behind Malfoy and gently gripping his arms. He could feel the tension thrumming through every inch of the other man he was in contact with. He tried not to think about that though, guiding Malfoy's arms up and angling his body. "Okay," he breathed, unnerved he'd gotten this far and didn't have his nose broken. "Imagine the barrel as a wand and point it like you would one." Cupping his hand under Malfoy's where it was braced under the base of the barrel, he ignored the smooth knuckles straining under his touch and slowly moved the gun back and forth.

"I've seen you in action, and you with a wand is lethal so this should be easy for you."

The blond jerked against him at the compliment. Gray peeked at him over his shoulder. Harry avoided his eyes and concentrated on lining up the shot. Thankfully Malfoy's gaze didn't linger and refocused, choosing a target on his own. Harry shallowly exhaled in relief, and promptly got distracted by the way his breath ruffled the short hairs on the back of Malfoy's neck. Heat flared under his skin, and -transfixed- he dipped closer and purposely breathed on the platinum hairline. He only snapped out of it when compressed air blasted. He pulled away, blinking and looking around Malfoy to see fresh blue paint splattered on the chin of one of the mannequins.

Malfoy whooped, spinning around to face him and smiling triumphantly. A light blush stained his fair cheeks.

Stunned by the sight, Harry smiled broadly but decided against the congratulatory slap on the back he normally would have given without thought to one of his mates. This was Malfoy here, not a friend definitely, yet wasn't much of an enemy either. In order to no longer go down the dark, confusing road his thoughts were heading, he snatched up his rifle and returned to his own target practice.

Malfoy wordlessly settled beside him, and they engaged in an hour of silent shooting and reloading. Eventually an unspoken game developed where every single one of Harry's shots were messily overlapped by Malfoy's until they found a lull of rolling aching shoulders and flexing sore trigger fingers.

Harry peered through his lashes at the other man as he stretched his neck. "... Malfoy?"

"Hmm?" The blond didn't look up from his idle observation of his plum fingertip.

Harry bit his lip and released it with resolve. "About what you said before, about what's going on with our magic?"

Malfoy looked up at him, his features smooth and emotionless. "What about it?" he said, a small bite to his voice.

Well, Harry already exhumed this conversation, he might as well see it through. "Do you think once those things out there have no more magic to absorb, they'll just die off?"

"How should I know? I'm not a Seer."

"No, I know that." Harry hooked his hands behind his neck, rubbing, his eyes imploring. "But what do you think?"

Malfoy took too long to respond for Harry's nerves, but finally crystalline gray bore into him. "Magic is like energy. 'Energy can not be created or destroyed, it can only be changed from one form to another.' So, no, I don't think they're going to go away any time soon."

Processing the words, choking them down like dry, rotten meat, Harry dipped his chin and turned away. He picked up two new canisters of ammo and held them up to hide the slight shake in his hands. "What do you say about trying out moving targets?"

The other wizard visibly relaxed and reached out for the green paint balls. Harry pulled away just as something occurred to him. "You do know Einstein was a muggle, right?"

Malfoy's pointed nose wrinkled. "Don't be stupid. He was a squib," and with that he snatched his intended canister from Harry's grasp.

A loose, incredulous smile pulled at Harry's lips. He shook his head in disbelief, following the snotty blond.

Together they climbed up to a different, isolated section of the roof and proceeded to paint the staggering mannequins on the ground green and red until the sun sank below the horizon.

* * *

><p>TBC<p>

A/N: Yay another update! Thanks for sticking with me and all the nice reviews! They really boosted the ol' self esteem. :) I hope this chapter is okay. Anyway, I hope y'all had a great holiday season. LOVE!


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